text: D. B. Reynolds Brush Creek Charlie 
   
   
     
   
  CHAPTER—1 
       Skies painted with powdery gray clouds and a half-bright moon were projected over the calm creek waters and mud dried concrete of Brush Creek. Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli casted a pair of evil eyes over towards what appeared to be his next easy target. The shell-shocked Vietnam veteran possessed a powerful build, heavily-scarred face, and cauliflower ears. A rather large plastic bag bulged from the left side of his belly. Considered a curse by most, he’d been confined to wearing a colostomy bag for the rest of his life. A tragic war wound explained everything in detail. 
       The creepy looking war veteran watched every move the young beauty made. She strolled along the concrete walkway with her large black Labrador Retriever by her side. Charles Rastelli had total mischief on the brain. Now came the time for him to make his move. Gently, he lifted an empty whiskey bottle from the ground. He held it with a firm grip. He watched her with eyes of absolute contempt. Birds chirped sounds of warning from the trees above.  
       Squirrels and rabbits trampled through the tall grasses surrounding the creek. 
       “Evening, ma’am,” Charles spoke, a strong voice tainted with suspicion. 
       Caught by surprise, she jerked her head backwards. She stared him up and down and then said, “Evening to you, sir.” 
       “Come to Brush Creek often?” Charles asked, his jumpy eyes coated with plot. 
       “Just to walk my dog and get some fresh air. And how about yourself?” 
       “Brush Creek is like my inner sanctum,” Charles hinted. “There’s never been a more exciting place on Earth.” 
       “Is that right? Sounds like Brush Creek fascinates you.” 
       “Used to come here every single day when I was a kid.” 
       “Guess it’s not a bad place to hang out. It’s nice to get away from the madness of the city.” 
       A familiar growl rumbled from the stomach of her Labrador. The growl sent warning vibes to its master. The dog sensed something she couldn’t. 
       “So, what’s your name?” 
       “My name’s Sandy. Sandy Barnholtz, to be exact.” 
       “And Barnholtz’s Jewish I assume?” 
        “It is. And your name?” 
       “Charles, but all of my family and friends call me Charlie. I’m a Vietnam War Vet.” 
       “Charlie, huh?” 
       “Yeah, like Charlie Chaplin, Charlie McCarthy, Charlie Bronson, and Charlie’s Angels,” Charlie marveled, followed by a gritty snicker.   
       Once again, the Labrador growled.  
       The growls grew more intense.  
       Sandy not only noticed the large bulge from the side of Charlie’s stomach, but she also noticed his left hand dangling to the side of his leg and behind his back.  
       She backed away from him. It might’ve been too late to prepare for danger.  
       “Hey, what’ve you got in your hand?” Sandy jolted, slowly backing away. 
       “Didn’t you notice when I first walked up on you?” Charlie smirked, playing mind games to the fullest. 
       “You’re one of those psychos.” 
       “How’d you guess?” 
       Sandy used lightning quick reflexes. She dropped the lease to the ground. 
       “Get him Bolo!” she ordered, her Labrador ready to attack on command. 
       Bolo, the vicious canine, rushed Charlie with a set of razor sharp teeth. Charlie had served two tours of duty in Vietnam. He’d never been shy about showing off his special combat tactics. He welcomed the attack with an open challenge. Bolo maneuvered quick enough to sink his inviting teeth into the flesh of Charlie’s right arm.  
       “You stupid fucking mutt!” Charlie muzzled, a maniac who laughed at pain. 
       Sandy stood aside with hopes her canine would rip Charlie into bite-size morsels. 
       “Kill him, Bolo! Kill the bastard!” 
       Charlie broke the empty whiskey bottle using his free left hand. His special tactics training on how to kill his enemies with impunity were now put to the test. Brute strength and outright insanity proved a worthy adversary. Charlie jabbed the fierce Labrador through the abdomen with the sharp edge of the bottle. Blood gushed out of Bolo like a tiny water fountain.  
       “My God!” Sandy screamed, her eyes bewildered in disbelief. 
       “God can’t save this stupid mutt!” Charlie replied, blood oozing down the side of his arm. 
       “You killed my precious Bolo!” 
       Bolo squealed from the sounds of a canine meeting up with its demise. Charlie jabbed and jabbed deeper into the dog’s abdomen. More blood painted the mud baked concrete walkway of Brush Creek. So what Charlie suffered serious bite marks into his right arm. So what most of the bite marks penetrated several layers of his thick skin. Sandy stood before an insensitive maniac to say the least. 
       “You sick sonofabitch!” Sandy grumbled through clenched teeth. Tears welled heavily in her eyes. 
       “As sick as you want me to be.” 
       “My Bolo’s dead because of you.” 
       Charlie dropped the sharp piece of glass to the ground. The darkest blood ever trickled down his arm. Having gotten himself all bloodied up was his badge of honor. Mentally, no man could’ve been sicker. Sandy could’ve easily ran for her life. Instead, she decided to stick around and watch the psychotic bastard brutally kill her dog. She loved Bolo more than anyone knew. 
       “Now the world’s free from one less mutt,” Charlie boasted in his own perverted way. 
       Sandy twisted muscles in her face and said, “You’re going to pay for what you did to my precious Bolo.” 
       Charlie fired back with his ugly, war-scarred face. “If anybody’s going to pay, bitch, it’s going to be you.” 
       “How could you do such a thing, you sonofabitch? Where’d you learn to be so cruel to animals?” 
       “For your information, I served time in Nam.” 
       “Nam?” 
       “Vietnam, you incompetent broad,” Charlie clarified, his voice revved with vengeance. “I killed little innocent babies, innocent children, and innocent women.” 
       “Which makes you a cold-blooded killer.” 
       “That’s right, the United States Government had me over there in Nam killing people who ain’t never done nothing to me.” 
       “My lord, you’re a real sicko.” 
       “Wanna know what else?” 
       “Huh?”  
       Sandy shivered as she stared down at her beloved dog who laid in his own pool of blood. 
       “My grandfather, they killed him in the gas chamber back in the early forties. Government claimed he had something to do with the Union Station Massacre.” 
       “Look, I don’t give a damn about your grandfather.” 
       “And I’ll tell you another thing. I lost something real precious when I served over in Nam. I lost something that stopped me from carrying on my name, something that ended my goddamn family legacy.” 
       Sandy leveled her head downward to stare between the legs of Charlie. Right at his midsection, a noticeable flatness struck her curiosity. Prints usually made from men’s sex organs weren’t there. She shook her head and backed away. 
       “I lost the very thing that would’ve carried on the family name for generations to come.” 
       “You lost-----?” Sandy stuttered, zooming in closer to his midsection. 
       “Yes, bitch, my dick and balls were shot off in combat!” 
       Charlie slipped into a deep daze and traveled back into time. The place was west of Saigon along the Cambodian border.  
       The 25th Infantry Division held their M-60 machine guns as a mother would’ve held her newborn child. Operation Saratoga rushed through the hot sweaty jungles of Vietnam avoiding sniper fire received about five miles northeast of Cu Chi, Vietnam. Charlie and fellow troops were on a combat reconnaissance mission. The soldiers crouched down as they moved through low foliage in the demilitarized zone. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed all around their faces. The stench of decomposed bodies sifted through the air.  
       Charlie and fellow trooper’s faces were camouflaged with colored grease paint. They waited patiently for any sign of enemy activity during a search and destroy operation in one of Mekong Delta’s swamp jungles. Green Berets waged guerilla warfare and organized resistance behind enemy lines. Vietnamese Militias snuck up on American soldiers and fired away with their belt-faced machine guns.  
       Six-hundred rounds per minute were shot at Charlie and his guys at a range no closer than 900 meters. To avoid being hit, Charlie dove into a deep trench. He landed right onto a dead American solider whose body was being devoured by thousands of hungry maggots. The corpse didn’t even have a face. The consumptive maggots had eaten all the way down to the facial skeleton.  
       The horrific sight traumatized Charlie to the degree of him jumping out of the trench and right into the line of fire. A cluster of M-60 rounds made contact with his midsection. His penis and scrotum were blasted right off his body. Blood soaked his Army fatigues. 
       “I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit!” Charlie cried out twice to any who’d listen. 
       A fellow trooper from Operation Saratoga quickly came to his rescue. “Charlie, where’d you get hit?” 
       “Between my legs!” Charlie yelled in excruciating pain. 
       “We’ve got to get you medical help.” 
       “I think I got hit in my family jewels.” 
       “The Viet Congs are doubled up in this fucking jungle.” 
       “Goddamn chinks!” Charlie fizzled. “Betcha they’re looking to take pow’s.” 
       Charlie’s fellow trooper got on his walkie talkie and radioed for help. “We’ve got a soldier down. Repeat, we’ve got a soldier wounded. Casualties from Saratoga are with him until he gets medical help.” 
       “We read you, soldier,” answered a medical staff member. 
       Army Corps medical staff arrived to attend to a wounded Charlie. Medical technicians rolled him over onto a gurney and rushed him to a nearby barrack.  
       Charlie drifted back into the present. It surprised even him to see Sandy still standing along the concrete walkway of Brush Creek. She fixed her eyes on the large bulge to the left side of his stomach. Ducks, squirrels, rabbits, frogs and other creatures of Brush Creek rushed to return to their natural habitats. The brightness of the half-moon above put Charlie square in the spotlight.  
       “Is that a colostomy bag sticking out from under your shirt?” Sandy asked Charlie, using her own close observation. 
       Charlie locked his teeth together. He curled both hands into tight fists and then said, “No, it’s just a big wart that’s been growing on my stomach the last twenty years. Can’t you see that I wear this bag because my dick and balls got blasted off by enemy ammunition when I served over in Nam. What, you’ve got a problem with that?” 
       “It’s not my problem, Charlie, it’s your problem. I don’t have problems with enjoying some toe-curling and hair-raising sex.” 
       “Are you mocking me?” 
       “No, it’s just that it’s not my fault that you can’t enjoy some hot steamy sex.” 
       “How dare you!” Charlie resisted. “This happened to me serving my country.” 
       “Oh, you have my sympathy,” Sandy taunted. “But, you murdered my wonderful dog and nothing can bring him back. How could you be so cold and brutal?” 
       Charlie stepped closer towards Sandy. She wasn’t taking any chances. Keen eyesight and fierce reflexes led her to scan the ground for a weapon. More broken pieces of glass were scattered near the creek’s water reserve. Sandy bent down and snatched up a razor-sharp piece of soda bottle. 
       “Nothing’s going to help you,” Charlie dismayed, drawing back his strong left arm. 
       “Don’t be so sure about that, buddy,” Sandy challenged, her tightest grip ever on the piece of glass. 
       “I can tell you something about yourself that you didn’t think I knew.” 
       “And what would that be?” 
       “You’re a lesbian.” 
       “And proud of it, too.” 
       “I never could stand homos. And that includes you lesbo women, too.” 
       “Sounds like a personal problem to me.” 
       Charlie and Sandy studied the moves of one another. Who’d be the brave one to strike first? Intensity between the opposite sexes grew thicker than the debris around Brush Creek. 
       “You dykes are a disgrace to society.” 
       “Jealous, my friend? Jealous because you don’t have the tools to satisfy women or men?” 
       “Don’t you dare insult my fucking manhood!” 
       “You don’t have the manhood to insult,” Sandy sneered, drawing back her skinny right arm. 
       Charlie’d been tortured enough with her insults. He sprinted towards Sandy with the same piece of sharp glass he’d used to kill Bolo. Little did this maniac know she’d been trained in martial arts and special tactics. Charlie swung at Sandy and missed. He swung a second time and missed again.  
       He knew he wasn’t dealing with the average female. She did some swinging of her own. The razor-sharp edge of the glass made malicious contact with the side of his neck and in the middle of his colostomy bag. Fresh urine from the bag leaked out like a tiny water fountain. The reddest blood shot from the side of his neck. For Sandy, her self-defense training paid off.  
       “That’s all you’ve got?” Charlie laughed, both hands nursing the cut to his neck. 
       “Got a lot more,” Sandy challenged, ready to strike again. 
       “Women are the weaker sex.” 
       “Not this woman.” 
       “I wish I could take all of you homos, put you on an island together, and then blow that fucking island straight to hell.” 
       “Us homos don’t have much love for you, neither.” 
       Charlie dashed towards Sandy a second time. She jumped to the side and sliced him at the middle of his arm. More blood trickled past his hand and spilled onto the ground. 
       While running away pampering his wounds, Charlie cried out, “I’ll see you again, bitch! War has no beginning, and it has no end. I’ll find you somewhere, because you won’t be safe nowhere on this fucking Earth!” 
       In a matter of seconds, Charlie dispersed into the acute darkness of Brush Creek. The squirrels, rabbits, ducks, chipmunks, and even rats, seem to have left their habitats to witness what happened between Sandy and Charlie.  
       The maniac appeared to be nowhere in sight. Sandy fell to the ground where Bolo was stretched out across the blood-stained concrete. Her beloved canine she’d raised since a week old was dead because of some cold-blooded, calculated killer. The Labrador Retriever who protected her, the animal she considered her best friend, was no more than a dog with deep gashes carved into his abdomen. Tears moistened her eyes. 
       Sandy used female strength to lift Bolo off the ground. Through the tall grasses surrounding the legendary creek, she kicked rocks and branches and wildlife to make her way towards the street where her car was parked. Bolo was placed in the back with lots of old newspapers spread across the seat. Truly a sad event since the dog fulfilled her life. The traffic going up and down Brush Creek Boulevard increased during the late evening hours.  
       The bright street lights towering above the busy boulevard bathed the blank face of Sandy. Much to her chagrin, why would anyone want to kill her beloved innocent canine? A sudden burst of flashing police lights bounced all around the Toyota Camry owned by Sandy Barnholtz. She snapped out of her dreamworld to look around. A KCPD officer climbed out of his squad car to investigate.  
       “Mam, is everything okay?” the seasoned officer asked Sandy. 
       Sandy wiped her eyes to clear out some of the glare. “Yes, yes, everything’s fine, officer.” 
       “I saw you standing over here by your car. Judging by the way you were looking, I thought you’d been attacked.” 
       “No, no, I’ve been waiting for the traffic to clear here on Brush Creek Boulevard.” 
       “Some event took place over at the Brush Creek Community Center.” 
       “I noticed all those cars coming from over there.” 
       “Were you just coming from over there in Brush Creek?” 
       “Yes, got bored at home and decided to take a walk through the creek with my dog.” 
       “At this time of night?” 
       “Nightly blues got the best of me.” 
       The officer joggled his head as he studied the noticeable fright blanketed around Sandy. “Brush Creek’s not the safest place to be in the late night hours. Psychos might be down there.” 
       “Psychos?” Sandy questioned the officer. Charles Rastelli immediately came to mind. 
       “That’s right, mam. Body-after-body have been found in Brush Creek over the years. Why do you think people nicknamed it ‘The Creepy Creek’?” 
       Sandy couldn’t work up enough courage to tell the officer how she’d just encountered a psycho like he’d described.  
       “It’s a lot safer up towards The Plaza.” 
       “Couldn’t argue with that, since the Plaza Patrol watches over the rich people’s investments.” 
       “It’s getting late, officer,” Sandy hinted, looking down at her watch. 
       The concerned policeman positioned his flashlight inside Sandy’s Toyota. “Is that your dog in the backseat?” 
       Sandy, sensing he might’ve unveiled what happened just minutes ago, stood before him frozen harder than the glacier icecaps. “Yes, that’s my dog Bolo.” 
       “Bolo’s his name?” 
       “Yes.” 
       “What breed is he?” 
       “Labrador Retriever.” 
       “Looks like he’s sleeping like a log.” 
       Sandy only prayed the officer wouldn’t discover how Bolo was sliced up like a piece of edible meat. Why didn’t she want the officer to know her dog had been killed by some vicious maniac who scoured Brush Creek for his next potential victim?  
       “My Bolo usually sleeps real heavy.” 
       “How often do you come to Brush Creek?” 
       “I’d say every other weekend.” 
       The officer swung the flashlight over to Sandy.  
       Dark red spots were soaked into the left pants leg of her jeans.  
       Carrying Bolo from the creek to her car, she smeared some of his fluids onto her clothing. Not a good sign for her. 
       “Mam, what’s that on your pants?” the officer noticed with observant eyes. 
       “What, these little spots here?” Sandy pointed out, glancing down at her pants. 
       “Looks like tiny drops of blood.” 
       “Coming through some of those tall weeds, I might’ve got stuck in the legs by a few thorns.” 
       “Must be some pretty sharp thorns through all that brush.” 
       “That’s Brush Creek for you.” 
       “Don’t you think you might need medical attention?” 
       “Sir, I’ll be just fine. When I get home, I’ll just nurse it with some alcohol or Neosporin and bandages.” 
       “You sure you don’t want me to call the medics?” 
       “Positive, officer.” 
       “Okay, you be careful.” 
       “I will, officer.” 
       One of the finest K.C. had to offer got inside his squad car and cruised off. Sandy released a strong sigh of relief. Charlie made a clean getaway. How could she have let him get away with brutalizing her dog? Yet another maniac ran loose on the streets of Kansas City.  
  CHAPTER—2 
       Not only did Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli wear the scars of war on his face, but he wore even deeper scars of battle in his heart and mind. He tried his hardest to vanquish the ghostly memories of a war which lost more than a generation. The memories were like indestructible poltergeists. He looked into the mirror and hated what he saw. The cuts on his neck and arm inflicted by Sandy were quite visible.  
       Replacing his colostomy bag didn’t concern him as much. As he stood in the mirror, almost shameful to observe the hideous scars on his face, he experienced sudden symptoms of shakiness, muscle aches, sweating, cold and clammy hands, dizziness, fatigue, racing heart, and dry mouth. Feelings of worthlessness and guilt bolted through his head. 
       “War has no beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie grumbled in his most boisterous voice. 
       Both strong fists went bammed against the wall. The strength of his legs stomping on the fragile wooden floor made a frightening impact for the neighbors below.  
       Fists bamming and feet stomping created a disturbing ruckus for the other residents at The Rosenburg Apartments. 
       “War has no beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie cried out a second and commanding time. 
       Traumatic events from the Vietnam War reoccurred through his own illusions, hallucinations, and flashback episodes. Charlie lived, fought, played, and ultimately got severly wounded in Vietnam. Residents at The Rosenburg noticed the outburst of anger and hypervigilance coming from the upper level. Peace and quiet were the mainstays at the apartment complex in the heart of The Country Club Plaza. Management didn’t tolerate those who played loud stereos and televisions or fought with their spouses and family members.  
       Charlie failed to realize he lived right above a gay male couple. Unconventionally, the gay couple were also an interracial couple. Derrick Thomas happened to be the African American half of the two committed gay men. Derrick sported a short kinky hairstyle, had two front teeth missing, and a large mole plastered to the right side of his face. Mitchell McNally turned out to be the white half of the loving gay couple.  
       Mitchell wore thick, coke bottle style bi-focals. He always brushed his patchy thinning hair to the right side and wasn’t too proud to smile since his dental work were tarnished dark brown from excessive smoking. The proud gay men celebrated ten years of homosexual bliss. The bamming and stomping from up above irritated the last of their sensibilities. 
       “What is Charlie up there doing now?” Derrick asked Mitchell, nursing a warm cup of hot cocoa. 
       “Trying to wake up the dead, I suppose,” Mitchell disclaimed, stirring a half-cup of straight black coffee. 
       “Everybody here at The Rosenburg complains about his noise all the time.” 
       “I’d like to know what goes on inside his apartment.” 
       “Charlie’s the weirdest man I’ve ever lived around.” 
       “He’s never been married, and he doesn’t have any children.” 
       “Why you think that’s so?” 
       “I really don’t know. I do know that he did time over in Vietnam.” 
       “Lots of people come back from wars with their minds all messed up.” 
       “Shell shocked and filled with all kinds of poisons and diseases.” 
       “Jumping up out of their sleep from hearing guns and helicopters and all kinds of other stuff.” 
       “You know, I’ve seen Charlie coming into The Rosenburg talking to himself. He walked up the stairs mumbling things to himself.” 
       “Vietnam could’ve made him certified insane.” 
       One flight above Derrick and Mitchell, inside the lifeless and hollow apartment of Charlie, he continued staring into the bathroom mirror. Feelings of worthlessness and guilt wrapped the mightiest grip around him. Fear of loss and abandonment burned through the core of his soul. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome best described the torture Charlie went through night and day. Sweat burst through his pores. Tears streamed down his scarred face.  
       “War has no beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie yelled once again with fury. The bamming of his fists and the stomping of his feet started up again. Maybe he forgot what was meant to respect his neighbors. The tremors from his aggressive behavior disturbed every other resident inside The Rosenburg. People throughout the three-story complex were fed up with his outburst of anger. Complaints poured into the manager’s office on a weekly basis. Charlie threw himself on the mercy of the manager by pleading his case of being a war torn Vietnam veteran. The pounding of fists and feet intensified. 
       One story below Charlie, inside the freshly-decorated apartment of Derrick and Mitchell, the gay couple had enough of the nut disturbing the entire apartment complex. The homosexual duo took a trip upstairs to do some investigating of their own. Derrick demonstrated how he too could pound a hard fist against solid objects. He knocked and knocked until he got the attention of someone inside. 
       “Coming!” Charlie said, leaving the bathroom with his face drenched. 
       More aggressive knocks vibrated through the wood of the door. Nosy neighbors peeked between the cracks of their doors. Dogs barked and cats purred after being stirred up. 
       “Who the fuck is it?” Charlie angrily inquired, his face inches away from the door. 
       “It’s Derrick and Mitchell from downstairs,” Derrick announced, one hand on his hip. 
       Charlie conjured up enough anger to blow dragon fire from his nose.  
       Using voice control, he whispered from the other side of the door. “What in the hell do those two fucking faggots want?” 
       “Charlie, could you please open up the door?” Derrick requested, his patience worn thin. 
       Charlie cracked the door with enough space to stare into his neighbor’s faces. “What can I help you guys with?” 
       “First, we’re wanting to know what’s with all the bamming and pounding and unnecessary noise coming from inside your apartment.” 
       “Working on a project in here.” 
       “What project stirs up that much noise?” 
       “Something that requires lots of hammering and sawing and moving.” 
       “Are you building something?” 
       “Trying to put together this wood oak table.” 
       “Correct me if I’m wrong, Charlie, but it sounds like you’re using your fists and feet to build this wood oak table.” 
       “Requires of a lot of hand and feet work.” 
       Mitchell stepped around his cherished gay lover to speak to Charlie. “Charlie, don’t you know that there’s a big stack of complaints against you down in the manager’s office?” 
       Charlie threw Mitchell one of the nastiest stares.  
       The stare conveyed a message which begged him to go back downstairs and pump his faggot boyfriend.  
       He cracked the door a little wider and told Mitchell, “Sure, I’m aware that a lot of these nosy people here at The Rosenburg have complained about me. And yes, the management has threatened to kick me out a whole bunch of times. I’m a veteran and I have rights just like everybody else.” 
       “True, you have rights like everybody else. But it’s not your right to disturb people who have to go to work the next day, or people who enjoy quiet reading time and meditation.” 
       Homosexuals, especially gay men, annoyed Charlie into irritable frenzies. Men being intimate with men were the worst form of abomination for him.  
       “If I disturbed you or anyone else, I do apologize for inconveniencing you.” 
       “Forgive me for asking, but are you on some type of medication?” 
       “That’s none of your goddamned business!” Charlie lashed out, his blood pressure having tipped the scale. “But since you asked, I’ve been on medication for anxiety attacks and high blood pressure. Let’s see you go to combat and watch innocent women and babies and children killed in cold blood. I’d like to see you run through trenches and dive onto dead bodies filled with thousands of maggots. These people here at The Rosenburg don’t know what I’ve been through. Nobody knows what I’ve seen.” 
       Derrick and Mitchell locked eye contact. Frowns of sheer disgust faltered upon their faces. A million stories about the horrors of Vietnam were told by those who experienced the hell first-hand. 
       Mitchell studied the visible wounds Charlie earned from his brief battle with Sandy. “Charlie, what happened to your neck and arm?” 
       Charlie angled his head sideways. He swung his arm backwards. Too late for him to hide the cuts he deserved. “Fooling around with saws and knives, accidents tend to happen.” 
       Derrick moved Mitchell aside to get a closer view of the cuts. “Those cuts don’t look like they came from using a saw or a regular house knife.” 
       Again, Charlie wished the two faggots would’ve gone downstairs and pumped one another. The idiots worked his last good nerve. 
       “This is the price you pay when you don’t have a steady hand.” 
       “Are you hiding something from us, Charlie?” 
       “Nothing that should concern you.” 
       “We’d hate to see you get kicked out on the streets.” 
       “The Rosenburg Apartments aren’t the only residences left in the city.” 
       “True, but bad rental history isn’t the way to go.” 
       “I appreciate you guys being concerned, but I can handle myself. The noise, I’ll cut down on it, and I’ll learn to respect my neighbors.” 
       The door to Charlie’s apartment cracked open wider. Derrick invited himself closer to the doorway for a better view of the weirdly designed apartment.  
       The framed pictures lined along the walls awakened his inner senses. 
       “Charlie, why do you have all those framed photos of Brush Creek on your walls?” Derrick questioned Charlie, the same man he considered the weirdest person alive. 
       Charlie looked back into his apartment and scanned the walls. “Brush Creek is the greatest marvel ever known to man. As a kid, I became fascinated with the creek, right from the start to the very end.” 
       “What’s the fascination?” Mitchell tried to fathom. “Brush Creek is nothing but a bunch of concrete with sewer water and tree brush and animals running wild.” 
       “You might see it that way, but let me be the first to tell you, Brush Creek is like the Eighth Wonder of the World. To me, it’s greater than The Great Wall of China, The Taj Mahal, The Statue of Liberty, the pyramids in Egypt, and Angels Falls in Venezuela, all put together.” 
       “Wish I could see things through your eyes.” 
       “You don’t have an eye for beauty and greatness.” 
       “Besides, with the creek being so old, and us living so close to it, I get the creeps everytime I walk or drive past it.” 
       “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my work.” 
       Charlie stepped back into his apartment and politely closed the door. Derrick and Mitchell got the message. Go back down to your own apartment and worry about what goes on in there. The message couldn’t’ve been clearer for the concerned gay couple. 
  CHAPTER—3 
       Traumatized best described how Sandy Barnholtz felt after her encounter with a sinister man like Charles Rastelli. She cruised into the driveway of her home in the Hyde Park section of Kansas City. The gear shifted into park and the lights shut off. The engine ran momentarily until she decided to turn it off. A crippling blanket of darkness engulfed the perimeter around her house. Silence created a smothering euphoria of fright. Sandy stepped to the back of her car and stared at her reflection. The glass clouded with water stains and dirt gave her a partial view of Bolo lying dead across the backseat.  
       The backdoor to the house shot open. A sparkling floodlight lit up the backyard. Sandy jumped and fell back onto the cold metal of her Toyota. There in the doorway stood her lifetime lesbian lover. Carol Wexler stood five-foot-six and was one-hundred fifty pounds of a solid athletic frame. Carol didn’t mind sporting blonde spiked hair with a nose earring and military tattoos across her arms. These were testaments to her devout lesbian lifestyle.  
       According to Sandy, she represented the feminine side of the relationship while Carol earned her stripes as the masculine one. 
       “Sandy, my dear, are you alright?” Carol asked her friend, lover, and confidant. 
       Sandy barely shook off the fright from Brush Creek. “Depends on what you mean by alright.” 
       “Why are you hanging around out here in the dark? Why don’t you just come in the house?” 
       “Right now, babe, I’m sorta shook up.” 
       “What’s wrong?” 
       “Let me catch my breath.” 
       “Where’s Bolo?” 
       “In the backseat.” 
       “Asleep?” 
       Sandy took a peek into the backseat. “Carol, something bad happened to Bolo down in Brush Creek.” 
       “You wanna tell me about it?” 
       “I’m still trying to get my thoughts together.” 
       Carol couldn’t cut through the anticipation. She approached the car examining the empty look on Sandy’s face.  
       One stare into the backseat created a ruckus within her emotions. “Jesus! What happened to Bolo?” 
       Sandy opened the backdoor and said, “Babe, help me get him in the house.” 
       “Sandy, who did this to Bolo!” Carol cried out, both hands cupped over her mouth. 
       “I’ll explain it to you when we get in the house.” 
       “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” 
       Sandy and Carol lifted Bolo by his front and hind legs. The precious canine was carried into the house and placed on the floor just past the kitchen. Thick blood had caked all around his ripped up abdomen. Carol just couldn’t believe what her eyes bestowed upon her. 
       “Now, are you going to tell me what happened?” Carol required of Sandy, both hands rested around her waist. 
       Sandy took a long deep breath and said, “Well, Bolo and I had taken a stroll through Brush Creek. Things were quiet down there until we ran upon this maniac-of-a-creep who seemed to have popped up out of nowhere. Carol, this had to have been one of the ugliest guys that I ever seen in my life. And I’m not just saying that because I’m a lesbian. I see real cute guys all the time, not that I would ever go back over to the other side.” 
       “I would surely hope not,” Carol disregarded, a true titan of a lesbian. 
       “Babe, this guy had severely-pitted skin and rotted teeth,” Sandy described in gory details. “Took only a few seconds to realize that this creep was some shell shocked Vietnam veteran. Anyway, he started out talking sweet like all the rest of those jerks out there, that is, until I saw he had a thick sharp piece of glass in his hand.” 
       “You should’ve took off running.” 
       “Bolo started growling, ready to attack this bastard on command.” 
        Carol looked down at the butchered Labrador Retriever and said, “Only a psycho would do something like this.” 
       “I sicked Bolo on this lunatic and hoped he’d shred him into confetti. Bolo bit into his arm a couple’a times and this nut just smiled as though he’d experienced great pleasure. With that sharp piece of glass, he ripped into Bolo’s stomach, cutting him up like he was mince meat. Blood started shooting out of him like crazy.” 
       Carol rushed over by the wall and snatched up the cordless phone. “I’m calling the police right now, which is something you should’ve done when this first happened.” 
       Sandy grabbed her arm and put the phone back on the base. “Babe, there’s nothing we can do about it now.” 
       “Have you lost the better half of your mind?” Carol transfused, her head dropped in disappointment. “This looney tune killed our dog, probably had intentions on trying to rape and kill you. Sandy, if we don’t call the police on this nutcake, there’re probably other people out there, moreso other women, he’ll try to rape and kill.” 
       “I honestly don’t believe he’ll try and rape no woman.” 
       “Says who?” 
       “Says myself.” 
       “How do you know this?” 
       “Babe, he was wearing a colostomy bag. He admitted he didn’t have a penis nor scrotum. We’re talking about a guy who doesn’t have anything to stick into a woman.” 
       “Sandy, you can’t be serious!” Carol howled, her face twisted both upward and downward. 
       “This retarded nutball said that he lost his family jewels in combat. We’re talking about a man who got all messed up in the Vietnam War.” 
       “And you don’t think he’ll be on the prowl around the city again? You don’t think he’s waiting to prey on his next victim?” 
       “It’s a strong possibility.” 
       “The next woman might not be so lucky.” 
       “You’re right.” 
       “Who’s to say that he hasn’t already killed someone.” 
       “This whole incident tonight was rather complex.” 
       “Calling the police and reporting this incident is the right thing to do. Tragedy is more like the word to describe what happened to you and Bolo tonight.” 
       Sandy moved into the comfort of her lesbian lover’s arms. “Speaking of Bolo, what should we do about him?” 
       “Bury him in the backyard.” 
       “Our best friend is no longer with us,” Sandy cried under her breath. 
       “We’re going to make this creep pay for what he did to our precious Bolo.” 
       Sandy lifted Bolo by his front legs while Carol clamped her hands around his hind legs. The brutalized dog was taken to the middle of the backyard. Carol grabbed two shovels from the side of the link fence and they started digging. Dirt went flying every direction as the hole got deeper. A hole dug slightly over four feet became sufficient enough to bury Bolo. Carol and Sandy lifted the canine up and gently dropped him inside. Sandy mashed both eyelids shut. A stream of tears couldn’t be held back. 
       “Like I said, Sandy, he’ll pay for what he did,” Carol said as words of comfort. 
       “I know it’s not the Christian way to think, but I’d like to take a big knife and rip his guts all up, just like the way he did Bolo.” 
       “He’ll get what’s coming to him. I can almost assure you of that.” 
       “Nightmares is what I’ll have after what happened tonight. That pitted skin and rotted teeth bastard won’t be erased from my memory so easy. 
       “How about I help you forget it. Starting at about right now.” 
       Carol took Sandy by the hand and guided her straight into the bedroom. The butch lesbian lifted her better half off the ground and placed her at the middle of the bed. 
       Decorations of scented candles and potpourri created a paradise for lovers inside their immaculate bedroom. The soft light bathed their faces with an alluring effervescence. Carol pressed the play button to their surround sound stereo system. The soothing voice of Mariah Carey crooned through the entire house. Sandy peeled off her clothing until she presented herself in the total nude. Carol kicked off her Timberland boots and slid her tight jeans just past her knees. To be such a stocky-built woman, she had an eye catching figure.  
       Their succulent lips met with invitation. Love juices from their tongues moistened the side of their mouths. Sandy made an unexpected move. She stepped forward to palm the missle-like breasts of Carol. Her pink ripe nipples rose to attention. Carol welcomed her soft hands to touch the more sensitive spots on her body. Their bodies generated a gentle warmth. Sandy and Carol climbed to the head of the bed. Both women displayed raw naked flesh. Their bodies joined together in carnal pleasures. 
       The multi-platinum voice of Mariah Carey intensified their lovemaking. The soft love music toyed with their uninhibited senses. Sandy and Carol slapped bodies as heavy sweat created wet rings on the pastel sheets. Like a wrestling match between two eager opponents, both women fought to achieve the ultimate orgasm. The room overshadowed itself with fleshly bliss. Carol rolled over and snatched open the drawer to their bedside table. Their favorite toy brought the quickest, the brightest smile to her face. She flashed a long silver vibrator towards the peripheral vision of Sandy. 
       “No, no, babe,” Sandy rejected with an abrupt hand signal. 
       “Something wrong?” Carol asked, turning off the power to the pleasure tool. 
       “I don’t feel right.” 
       “Is it the music?” 
       “No, the music’s fine.” 
       “Lights not down low enough?” 
       “The lights are fine.” 
       “Should I bring out another one of our joy toys?” 
       “The vibrator is cool, babe.” 
       “Then, what’s wrong, Sandy?” 
       “I can’t stop thinking about Bolo. I can’t stop thinking about what that motherfucker did to him. Unfortunately, I can’t get that pitted face and those rotted teeth out of my mind.” 
       “That’s why I’m here.” 
       “Just hold me.” 
       Carol scooted across the moist sheets and locked her arms around Sandy. The pair held one another with such gratitude. Sandy couldn’t hold back the tears. She had an attachment to Bolo more profound than Carol.  
       “Sometimes, it’s amazing how we as people latch on to animals like they’re human beings.” 
       “Bolo wasn’t just your average canine.” 
       “Babe, no other dog will ever take his place.” 
       Carol moved her hands over to Sandy’s more responsive body parts. “Oh Sandy, we’ll find another dog to replace Bolo.” 
       “Bolo’s unreplaceable.” 
       “Like they say, in time, all wounds heal.” 
       “To me, it’s like losing a lover and having to start all over again. I’ve never been the one who likes starting over when it comes to having a true love in your life.” 
       “Aren’t I the one and only true love in your life?” 
       “Certainly.” 
       “The more you think about it, the more it’s going to worry the hell out of you.” 
       “Guess you’re right.” 
       The full bright moonlight casted a soft light into their bedroom. Sandy and Carol rolled to their respective sides of the bed and fell asleep. 
  CHAPTER—4 
       The colossal sized kettles inside the warehouse of Gomez Foods shot big clouds of steam into the air. The mid-Fall temperatures outside reached the high forties. Charlie and the large number of Mexican men were sweating like workers on a cargo vessel. Three huge kettles of the hottest sauce imaginable cooked from the left side of the food plant. Three more kettles of cheesecake cooked from the right side. Charlie and four co-workers wore protective goggles and gloves along with surgical masks to find refuge from the fumes of the vicious sauce. The dark red sauce bubbled inside the kettles like lava from a volcano. 
       A dedicated worker named Jose Fernandez led the first food line. Jose was short, thin in body size, but rather handsome and articulate. Coming from a town in Mexico where hard work was no joke, he showed up to Gomez Foods on time and was always eager to do a good job. Manuel Ortiz and Daniel Villareal were his two soliders who also displayed fierce work ethics. Both were imports from Juarez who took advantage of the perks America had to offer. 
       The adrenalin inside of Jose was fired up. He looked at Charlie and asked, “Hey Charlie, are the hoses hooked up tightly?” 
       Charlie checked the hoses to make sure they were secured to the kettles and the operating machine to the food line. “The hoses are clamped on real tight.” 
       “And the temperature to the kettles?” 
       Charlie went over to the wall on the other side of the kettles. He checked the digital temperature gauges. “The temperatures are perfect for the sauce.” 
       “Enough glass to run through the line?” 
       “The counter is full of jars.” 
       “The palates stacked at the end of the line?” 
       “Stacked with the empty boxes and ready to go out to the warehouse.” 
       “Ready, Charlie?” 
       “Ready, Jose.” 
       Jose fixed his eyes on the nasty scar at the edge of Charlie’s neck. The scar resembled one of street warfare. Between Jose, Manuel, and Daniel, a mixture of Spanish and English dialect got tossed around like a ping pong ball. Manuel and Daniel couldn’t help but notice the deep gash on the neck of Charlie. Jose pushed a few buttons and the food line shifted into operating mode.  
       Small jars swung around the platform and went right down the line. Each jar was filled with the fresh hotsauce from the kettle. Manuel grabbed the warm bottles and dropped them inside of small boxes. Daniel grabbed the boxes and stacked them neatly across the thick wooden palate. The palates were filled with the boxes and taken out to the warehouse for inspection and shipment. 
       “Jose, I have to use the restroom,” Charlie told Jose, having worked up a sweat.  
       Jose ached his brain to figure out where the deep gash on Charlie’s neck came from.  
       “Charlie, my friend, I would like to ask you something,” Jose said, a heavy accent pouring from his voice. 
       “Ask me what?” Charlie said, his suspicions stirred up. 
       “Where’d you get that nasty scar on the side of your neck?” 
       “Had a bad accident this past weekend.” 
       “Did you get into a fight with somebody?” 
       “No, I didn’t.” 
       “The cut on your neck, it looks like somebody cut you with a sharp knife.” 
       “Got this cut from doing some housework.” 
       Jose shot off a loud giggle. “You sure you didn’t get into a scuffle with your girlfriend?” 
       “Very funny, Jose.” 
       Manuel burst into a more robust giggle. “Did you get that scar from eating pussy?” 
       “Eating pussy!” Charlie rattled, thrown way off guard. 
       “Remember in the movie ‘Scarface’?” 
       “Scarface? What’s that movie got to do with me having a scar on the side of my neck?” 
       Daniel cut into the humorous discussion. “Remember in the movie when the customs detective asked Tony Montana whether or not he got that scar on his face from eating pussy?” 
       “You guys are more than a handful.” 
       “Hey, essay, we’re only kidding around with you,” Jose said. 
       “Can I go to the restroom?” 
       “Sure, homes, you can go.” 
       “Thank you.” 
       Jose pressed a few buttons and stopped the food line operation. Charlie galloped across the food plant floor and straight to the men’s restroom. Not having the tool men usually possessed, he cautiously went over to the stool and emptied the colostomy bag. Dark yellow urine flowed into the stool. The color indicated he hadn’t drank enough water. Beer and soda were the only liquids he consumed everyday.  
       Charlie fastened the caps to the bag and went over to the mirror. A slight tilting of his head gave him the perfect view of his neck. The severe gash his co-workers joked about might’ve been more serious than he realized. The price for trying to attack an aggressive lesbian, especially after killing her dog, could’ve been more than he bargained for. 
       Tiny spurts of blood leaked from the slightly open wound. Medical attention should’ve been tops on his list of priorities. Infection was the last thing he needed crawling into his skin. Co-workers knew he’d gotten into a scuffle with somebody. Charlie washed his hands and tucked in his colostomy bag. He sprinted out of the restroom and ran straight into the owner of Gomez Foods.  
       The boss, Nick Di Lombardo, jumped to the side in order to keep from bumping bodies with Charlie. Nick displayed a tall and lean body frame which complimented the essence of his captivating Italian features. The brains behind Gomez Foods took one strong look at Charlie as he scoped in on the gash. 
       “Charlie, how’re things going inside the plant?” Nick asked, the noise inside the warehouse toppling his voice. 
       “They’re fine, Nick,” Charlie replied, his voice paranoid. 
       “Kettles running good for the Capital Punishment Hotsauce?” 
       “Running smooth as a baby’s bottom.” 
       “We’ve got a ten-thousand dollar order that needs to be shipped out before tomorrow.” 
       “We should be finished with those three kettles before lunchtime.” 
       “Great,” Nick smiled. “Things going okay with you and the other guys?” 
       “Better than expected.” 
       Nick stepped closer to Charlie. He closed in tighter on the ugly gash. “Charlie, what happened to your neck?” 
       “My neck?” Charlie answered nervously. He placed his hand across the nasty wound. 
       “Your neck, it looks like someone sliced you with a sharp object.” 
       “Like I told Jose and the other guys, had a bad accident doing some housework this weekend.” 
       Nick didn’t buy such a boldface lie. He could tell Charlie had been sliced by an opponent. 
       “You might wanna let a doctor take a look at it.” 
       “A few days from now, it’ll heal on it’s own.” 
       “I’m no doctor, Charlie, but you might need stitches.” 
       “Aw, just a little alcohol and Neosporin will take care of it.” 
       “Are you sure?” 
       “Nick, I suffered worse wounds in Vietnam,” Charlie disclosed, touching himself at the mid-section. “I’ve seen guys get body parts blown off all the time. I’ve been hit a couple of times by heavy artillery. This cut on my neck is just some secondary kindergarten stuff.” 
       Nick observed the wound with tighter scrutiny. “Infection gets inside that wound, it could make you real sick. I’d hate to lose you, Charlie, because of negligence on your part. Gomez Foods has always been happy to have you as a valued employee.” 
       “Since you insist, I’ll go and see doctor in the morning.” 
       “Just let Jose and the others know you’ll be late tomorrow.” 
       “Will do, Nick.” 
       Both hands on the clock inside the food plant gave the time 4:00 o’clock p.m. Charlie jolted with excitement since he’d been grilled all day about the ugly wound inflicted by a gay woman. He clocked out and raced towards his Honda Accord. Workers from nearby warehouse plants and restaurants peeled apart the pavement along Southwest Boulevard.  
       Charlie cruised along the busy boulevard until he ventured off onto Pershing Avenue. There stood a woman on Pershing with dense smoke shooting from her engine and radiator. Frustratingly, she waited on the passenger’s side of her sky blue Ford Mustang. She wasn’t bad looking, retaining a lean and toned figure to go along with a contemporary hairstyle and dress code. Being the civilized gentleman he pretended to be, Charlie swooped around a host of other motorists. The woman stranded on Pershing watched Charlie park and emerge from his car. As he walked towards her, she felt a sudden tingle of fright.  
       “Having car trouble?” Charlie asked the strange woman, bits of hotsauce and cheesecake scattered across his work uniform. 
       Her impulse kicked in right away.  
       She broke into a frown after she observed his pitted face and crashed dental work. “This car should’ve gone to the junkyard a long time ago. This is what happens when you try and economize and hold on to a piece of junk.” 
       “By the way, I’m Charlie.” 
       “My name’s Lisa Wallace. Most of my friends call me Bernie.” 
       “Bernie?” 
       “My middle name’s Bernadette.” 
       “How distinguished,” Charlie smiled, showing all of his uneven, rotted teeth. 
       “And your full name?” 
       “Charles Anthony Rastelli.” 
       “Italian?” 
       “All day.” 
       “Mafia connected?” Lisa casually joked. 
       “Now, now, not all Italians are in the Mafia.” 
       Lisa didn’t mind giving Charlie further conversation. Having the face filled with holes and the teeth ready to fall out of his mouth, it kept a sightly frown on her face. 
       “What seems to be the problem with your car?” 
       “Well, it leaks oil like crazy. I also believe one of my gaskets needs to be sealed.” 
       “See, even you know something about cars.” 
       “Not enough to fix this worthless piece of junk.” 
       “How about I take a look at it.” 
       “Go right ahead.” 
       Charlie lifted the hood to check things out. A few wires and hoses went swinging to the side. Steam rushed up from the water pump. Cables to the battery and wires connected with the starter and alternator were observed. Charlie instructed Lisa to start her car up. She climbed inside and jerked the ignition. For strange mechanical reasons, the car wouldn’t crank over.  
       “When’s the last time you replaced the battery?” Charlie inquired, having primary auto mechanic skills. 
       Lisa shook her head while wrinkles creased her forehead. “At least four years or more.” 
       “How about the starter and alternator?” 
       “Probably even longer.” 
       Charlie was never the type of man any woman looked upon and got excited from his looks.       
       “When’s the last time you had a tune up? How often do you get the oil changed?” 
       “I haven’t had a tune up in two years. I get the oil changed probably twice a year.” 
       “Well, there’s most of your problem,” Charlie guessed. “You should get a tune up done once a year and get your oil changed at least every three to four thousand miles. You’re going to need a new water pump and a new battery. Your belts and hoses look like they’re in great shape.” 
       “Gee, I see that you know a lot about cars. What, are you an auto mechanic or something.” 
       “Worked on a lot of jeeps and tanks when I did my tours of duty over in Vietnam.” 
       “You were in Vietnam?” 
       “Did several years over there.” 
       “Interesting.” 
       “Look, I’m going to let you see the gentleman side of me. Let me go to O’Hurley Automotive Parts just south of here and get you that water pump and battery.” 
       “How much will it cost?” 
       “It’s on me.” 
       “No, no, I have cash to pay for it,” Lisa insisted, reaching into her purse to pay for the goods and services.” 
       “Sweetheart, my pockets are loaded with money from a bonus I got at work this work.” 
       “Really, I have no problem paying for the battery and water pump.” 
       “Please, I insist on you letting me take up the costs. I’d be insulted if you didn’t let me do so.” 
       “Alright, have it your way.” 
       “I’ll be right back.” 
       Lisa’s co-workers from the IRS sped out of the dark garage and on past where her car sat stranded. In less than an hour, Charlie made a trip to O’Hurley Automotive Parts and came back with the new battery and water pump. She watched him work his skills by replacing the vital car parts. With the use of his own hands, he tightened wires and adjusted a few of the belts and hoses.  
       “Get inside your car and try starting it up,” Charlie told Lisa, his eyes fixed on the water pump. 
       Lisa turned the ignition and pressed lightly on the accelerator. Juice flowed through the engine. Power sparked from around the battery and starter and alternator. The water pump worked like a dream.  
       Charlie smiled at Lisa from the hood of the car. “Looks like you’re back in business.” 
       “How can I ever thank you?” 
       “Easy,” Charlie deceitfully smirked. “Have dinner with me tonight.” 
       The cheerful look on Lisa’s girlish face dropped a level. “Dinner? Uh, I’m not so sure about that one.” 
       “Sure you’re sure. I’d cherish the company of a nice woman like you. I think you and I have a lot to talk about. We possibly have a lot of things in common.” 
       “Sir, I’m not too big on having dinner with men I barely know. We’ve just met today and you want us to have dinner. I think we should get to know one another a lot better.” 
       “Darling, I’m not asking you to marry me or have sex with me. Dinner and nice conversation, that’s all I’m asking, no more or no less.” 
       “What place did you have in mind?” 
       “My place.” 
       “Your place!” Lisa shunned. “Where exactly do you live?” 
       “In The Rosenberg Apartments on The Country Club Plaza.” 
       “Sounds quite fancy.” 
       “My residence is tranquil and civilized. The building is filled with nice, working-class people.” 
       Lisa picked away at her brains. “Come to think of it, you did pull over to offer me some help.” 
       “Being the perfect gentleman is in my blood.” 
       “You did make a special trip to the automotive store to pick up the battery and water pump for my car. Those qualities, I guess, are the signs of a true gentleman.” 
       “In this day and age, people are self-centered and self-absorbed. They only care about themselves.” 
       “You’ve got that right.” 
       “This guy here is from the old school. I care about the welfare of others.” 
       “What’s your exact address at these apartments on The Plaza?” 
       “Eight-Sixty-Four Ward Parkway.” 
       “Apartment number?” 
       “Two-twelve.” 
       “You’re not too far from those multi-million dollar mansions all along Ward Parkway.” 
       “When I drive up and down Ward Parkway, those mansions give me the creeps. That whole neighborhood is spooky, haunted with ghosts from back in the Civil War days.” 
       Lisa scrutinized Charlie with the strongest look. “Charlie, you’ve got yourself a dinner date tonight.” 
       “Great!” Charlie cheered. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear. What time can I expect you?” 
       “Let’s say, about seven or eight this evening.” 
       “Perfect!” 
        “I’ll see you then.” 
       Charlie and Lisa got inside their cars and drove away from the huge IRS complex. 
  CHAPTER—5 
       Charlie didn’t have company too often inside his apartment at The Rosenburg. Neither males nor females were allowed to step inside his private domain. Second only to Brush Creek did he find his residence a place of true solitude. He’d made Lisa Wallace a rare exception since she exuded pleasant vibes. Everything in his apartment was clean and organized. The air was filled with incense and potpourri. Not a speck of dust appeared across the hardwood floor. The buzzer to his apartment rung with authority.  
       Charlie moved his face up to the speaker system. “Who is it?” 
       “It’s Lisa Wallace.” 
       “I’ll be right down.” 
       Charlie exited his apartment and crept down the stairs. None of his nosy neighbors heard him coming towards the front door. There stood Lisa on the other side. She’d gone home and changed into a dress which brought out her hidden sexiness.  
       Charlie opened the door and looked her up and down. He liked every inch of her. An unpleasant odor seeped from under the door of Derrick and Mitchell. Charlie and Lisa fanned away the foul sexual odor. They climbed the stairs and he closed the door. 
       “Well, this is where I stay,” Charlie grinned, welcoming her to his private sanctum. 
       “It’s pretty neat,” Lisa obliged, scanning the walls lined with the Brush Creek posters. 
       “Here, let me take your coat.” 
       “Thank you very much.” 
       Lisa took a seat at the middle of the sofa. She turned her head from front to back and then sideways. “Can I ask you a sort of unconventional question?” 
       “Sure you can.” 
       “The disgusting odor from downstairs, where was it coming from?” 
       “There’s a gay male couple who lives in that first apartment on the first floor. Others here at The Rosenberg have complained about the stink blasting out of their apartment.” 
       “My stomach got twisted into a tight knot after getting a whiff of that smell.” 
       “Two guys having sex would stink up any area.” 
       “So, these guys are gay?” 
       “As an eleven dollar bill.” 
       “How odd.” 
       “Homosexuality itself is odd. My father and grandfather hated faggots with a vengeance.” 
       “Gay people are okay I guess. I’m straight and have never had a woman approach me with any gay gestures.” 
       “I share the same views as my father and grandfather about homosexuals. They’re an abomination and their way of life goes against nature.” 
       Lisa meditated on the large framed posters of different parts of Brush Creek. The posters covered almost every inch of wall space. 
       “Brush Creek, do you have a fascination with it?” Lisa questioned Charlie, picking up vibes he might’ve been rather weird. 
       Charlie stepped closer to one of the walls lined with four large posters. A glow was plastered to his face. “Brush Creek to me is one of the greatest engineering marvels in the world. If I was given the chance to make the call, Brush Creek would be the Eighth Wonder of the World. It’s greater than the pyramids of Egypt, The Taj Mahal, The Great Wall of China, Angels Falls in Venezuela, The Statue of Liberty, and the Panama Canal, all wrapped up into one.” 
       “Whew!” Lisa exhaled. “Your appeal for Brush Creek is not of this world. Never in my life have I met someone wrapped up in a piece of land that’s nothing but concrete and woods and water.” 
       Charlie signaled with a pointed finger. “My dear Lisa, Brush Creek is more than just concrete and water and woods and wild animals.” 
       “Come again, Charlie.” 
       “Did you know that forty-eight percent of the total annual flow of sewage comes through Brush Creek?” 
       “No, I didn’t.” 
       “Did you know that Brush Creek causes raw sewage backups in homes and businesses?” 
       “No, that’s new to me.” 
       “Did you know that the creek also contains high levels of e-coli which causes people to have gastrointestinal illnesses?” 
       “That’s interesting.” 
       “People have also been known to have hepatitis and respiratory problems.” 
       “Didn’t know that Brush Creek caused such horrible things.” 
       “The downstream drinking water is negatively impacted. The fish and turtles die because of pollutants like insecticides, detergents, pharmaceuticals, and household chemicals. Do you know what causes a lot of this contamination?” 
       “Since you’ve got all the answers, why don’t you tell me.” 
       “Old infrastructures that are neglected in favor of building new sprawled areas.” 
       “Maybe if people didn’t disregard city regulations and were willing to enforce the laws, maybe we wouldn’t have all these health hazards.” 
       “Absolutely,” Charlie affirmed. “Brush Creek has been known as ‘Flush Creek’. That raw sewage I told you about earlier, it has also been known to back up into people’s basements and flood their yards. Despite all of that, Brush Creek is still the greatest work of masterpiece known to man.” 
       Lisa peeked down at her watch and realized she’d spent a half-hour inside Charlie’s apartment. She knew by now he was one weird man. How could one person be so fired up about a system which was erected to control the city’s sewage system? How she psyched herself into meeting him at his place for a dinner date she just couldn’t fathom. 
       “Don’t mind me asking, but what’s for dinner?” Lisa asked Charlie. She stood to watch aerial view posters of Brush Creek during the disastrous flood of 1977. 
       “I ordered Pizza for the both of us.” 
       Pizza? What a true cheapskate for their first dinner date. This bum could’ve taken her to some nice restaurant on The Country Club Plaza. He had the money to spend for a pleasant evening. 
       “What kind?” 
       “A large meat lovers.” 
       The buzzer on the wall sounded off. Charlie pressed the speaker button. “Yes, who is it?” 
       “You ordered a pizza, sir?” responded the pizza delivery boy. 
       “I’ll be right down.” 
       Charlie returned to his apartment with the large box of pizza and a two liter of soda. A small box of breadsticks sat on top. He flipped open the lid and piping hot smoke arose from the meat and cheese trimmings. Their tastebuds were startled from the aroma. Premature stages of nightfall moved upon the city. Charlie cut on an extra light and the television for Lisa’s viewing pleasure. Two plates and glasses were placed on the table in front of the sofa. Lisa grabbed two slices of the warm pizza and filled her glass halfway with soda. Charlie did the same and their date sprung to the next phase. 
       “Other than Brush Creek, what else excites you?” Lisa inquired, intuitively. “I mean, what else drives you, something that brings purpose to your life?” 
       “My job excites me,” Charlie avowed. “I enjoy the type of work that I do.” 
       “Again, where do you work?” 
       “Gomez foods.” 
       “And what do you do there?” 
       “Help make sauces and dips and salsas.” 
       “Interesting.” 
       As Lisa sunk her teeth into the juicy morsels of Italian sausage and pepperoni, she once again studied the pitted face and badly-wrecked dental work Charlie’d been cursed with. Far from being a good looking man, he somehow ignored the unattractiveness he was born with. Some guys had all the luck. Unfortunately, it wasn’t him.  
       Based on the response from most women, he’d gotten a hunch how most of them simply weren’t interested. 
       “I do a little bit of everything at my job. I keep boxes of jars on top of a revolving platform. I supply lids to the food line operators. I clean huge kettles and machinery at the end of the day.” 
       “Sounds like you stay fairly busy.” 
       “From the time I clock in to the time I clock out.” 
       Lisa tried ignoring the fact Charlie was a strain on her eyes. “When you were working on my car, you mentioned that you served time in Vietnam.” 
       “Sure did.” 
       “What was it like over there?” 
       Charlie didn’t like talking about such horrible experiences. Lisa was the guest he vowed to keep entertained. “Nothing pretty, my darling.” 
       “Which means?” 
       “Meaning, that I saw and experienced things that would’ve made the average person lose their freaking minds.” 
       “I know it’s difficult, but tell me about some of the things that happened over in Vietnam.” 
       “But, we’re eating right now.” 
       “Is it that gross?” 
       “Gross, sweetheart.” 
       “I’m not squeamish at all. Besides, I’m just about full.” 
       Charlie took a bite of pizza and chewed with anguish. “One time, I dived into a deep trench and ended up on top of a dead body filled with maggots.” 
       “Yeek!” Lisa shrugged. “Seeing that would be enough to ruin someone’s appetite for life.” 
       “Think you can stand to hear more?” 
       “Depends.” 
       “I’ve seen guys get their heads and arms and legs blown clean off. I’ve seen casualties in my military company step on land mines and grenades and get half their torsos blown way up in the air. The bloodshed and mayhem in Vietnam sent us home not correct in the mind.” 
       “Once, I had an uncle who served in Vietnam. God rest his soul, but he came back to the states with that Agent Orange junk.” 
       “Your uncle’s dead?” 
       “Yes, he is. He was my mother’s youngest brother.” 
       “I’m sorry. What do you know about Agent Orange?” 
       “Agent Orange is a mixture of plant hormones that was used to kill vegetation in the jungles of Vietnam. That poisonous junk didn’t stop there.” 
       “Whaddaya mean?” 
       “There was Agent Blue, Agent White, and some crap called malathion.” 
       “Do you know a bunch’a other stories about that sickening crap?” 
       Charlie drew in a quick wind. “There’re a million more stories to be told.” 
       “Like?” 
       His heart ached from the painful memories. “When I got back home, I did some research of my own about Agent Orange. The government tried to hide information about the shit which made all of us soldiers wanting to puke through every inch we covered in those jungles. A lot of the guys who made it back to the states alive, they came back with cancer and liver and kidney problems, some of them having kids that were born with birth defects.” 
       “Did any of you soldiers seek reparation from the government?” 
       “I never did, but a lotta guys from the war filed class action lawsuits that came to about two-hundred million bucks.” 
       “And they deserve every penny of it.” 
       “To think, they dumped almost twenty-million gallons of that junk over in Vietnam. The damage they caused over there, it’s almost impossible to fix with money.” 
       Charlie ripped off the last piece of his pizza. The longer he stared at Lisa, the more appealing she became to him. She was quite an interesting woman for someone who led a scrupulously conservative lifestyle. 
       “I’ve told you most of my life story,” Charlie said, his eyes planted on Lisa’s more erotic body parts. “I’d like to know more things about yourself.” 
       “Your life story is right there on the walls,” Lisa pointed, followed by an aggressive giggle. “Brush Creek is your alpha and your omega.” 
       “Must say that you’re almost one-hundred percent correct.” 
       “Well, what would you like to know about me?”  
       “The IRS, what do you do for them?” 
       “I’m a section chief over the data conversion branch.” 
       “What’s a section chief?” 
       “I’m responsible for designated sections within data conversion.” 
       “The work itself, what exactly do you guys do?” 
       “We process 1040 and 1040A income tax forms. We process prior year tax forms and extensions, among other things.” 
       “The workers under you, what exactly do they do? What do they have to do to keep their jobs?” 
       “Data transcribers are required to meet target keystrokes and input a certain amount of documents per hour. Quality and Quantity are the two main factors which determine if they keep their jobs or not.” 
       “Tell me more about the IRS.” 
       “Like what?” 
       “Do you have the power to have somebody fired?” 
       “Yes, I can have someone reprimanded or have their position terminated.” 
       “Break it down for me. Like, how would you go about determining if somebody goes or if they stay.” 
       Lisa really wasn’t in the mood to give Charlie exact details about how she had the power to push people out the IRS doors.  
       She savored the moment and gave him the specifics. “Employees have to meet what’s called performance aspects. Workplace interaction, workgroup involvement, workplace environment, job knowledge, problem identification, technical knowledge, implementation of changes, and technical knowledge are to name just a few. How well a transcriber performs determines whether they’re fully successful, minimally successful, and unacceptable.” 
       “Well!” Charlie applauded. “You’re well versed on your job.” 
       “Certainly.” 
       Charlie wiped his mouth and scooted closer to Lisa. If he was going to implement any moves of romanticism, there was no better time than the present. Lisa looked over her shoulder and noticed the clock said 10:45 p.m. The brightest moon ever dominated the pitch black skies over Brush Creek. The glow of the moon casted a soft light into Charlie’s apartment. The only sound made was their hearts beating. 
       “It’s getting late and I have to be at work by six o’clock a.m.,” Lisa announced to Charlie, someone who faithfully went to bed on time every night. 
       “Can’t you stay for at least another half-hour?” Charlie pleaded, moving even closer to Lisa. 
       Lisa leaned back with force. “Wish I could, but my job’s very demanding.” 
       “Fifteen more minutes, that’s all I’m asking.” 
       “An hour, half-hour, fifteen minutes, it doesn’t matter, Charlie. By the way, how did you get that nasty scar on your neck?” 
       Charlie glided his fingers across his neck. “This scar means nothing, dear. Let’s just say that I encountered a little opposition one night down in Brush Creek.” 
       “Opposition? With who?” 
       “Someone.” 
       “Who’s this someone?” Lisa questioned as though she’d become frightened. 
        “Uh, it’s nothing to even consider.” 
       Lisa sprung up from the sofa with her coat clutched in her hand. Charlie displayed his own action of dominance. He pulled her back down on the sofa and planted a big kiss on her uninviting lips. Like any woman’d been taught when being attacked by a man, reach for his family jewels, his treasured babymaking tools. Only problem, Charlie didn’t have any. The colostomy bag popped out from under his shirt and swung into plain view. 
       “You sonofabitch!” Lisa charged, wiping her mouth and massaging her face. “How dare you try and kiss me without my consent. You are rude and forgot what it’s like to be a gentleman.” 
       “Maybe you forgot what it’s like to be a woman.” 
       Lisa had turned dark red in the face. 
       Charlie turned much redder from her resistance. 
       “By not letting you kiss me? You know, most women wouldn’t’ve given you the time of day. Look at you, your face is covered with crater holes, your mouth is filled with rotted teeth, and you don’t have no personality.” 
       Hearing those harsh insults, Charlie knew he’d pissed Lisa off. He reacted the only way he knew how. He snatched Lisa closer a second time and tried wetting her face up with his serpent- like tongue. She bent her fingers into a bear claw formation and grabbed his mid-section. Nothing but flat space filled the palm of her right hand. 
       “Oh Jesus!” Lisa squawled, surprise filling her eyes. “You don’t have any sexual organs. What happened to your penis and to your scrotum?” 
       Lisa giggled at Charlie’s misfortune. Her giggles got louder and more disheartening.  
       Charlie slipped into a daze which took him back to the Saigon section of Vietnam where drug centers, hotels, brothels, and boulevards and squares sprawled within a black market. The bars were drug centers and the hotels were brothels. Just outside a hotel Charlie had frequented during the day, two Vietnamese hookers accosted him with a ferocity unlike anything he’d ever experienced. They tugged at his sleeves with aggressive desperation. They whispered obscenities with a mixture of fractured English and casual Vietnamese dialect. 
       “Hey baby, you want date tonight?” asked the first hooker, standing barely five foot with short black hair and an eye-catching curvy build. 
       Charlie grinned and responded by saying, “How much, baby?” 
       “Ten dolla, baby.” 
       “We both show you real good time,” said the second hooker, standing slightly above five foot with long silky black hair and a thin build. 
       “You give good head?” 
       “We suck and fuck you real good, baby.” 
       “Ten dollars for the both of you?” Charlie asked, having no real reason to be excited. 
       “Yaaaaah, baby, ten dolla for both us.” 
       Charlie followed the two hookers inside one of the brothels known as The Hotel Caravelle. The unemployed hustlers, beggars, party fat cats, and undernourished trampled all through the smelly and sweaty brothel. From inside other rooms, many more Vietnamese prostitutes cried and brandished how terrified they were while American solidiers screwed them into unconsciousness. The threesome entered one of the dim rooms equipped with just a table and a single steel bunk bed. 
       “We tell you before, baby, it cost you ten dolla,” the first hooker explained once again. 
       “Yeah, baby, yeah, we suck and fuck you good,” the second hooker said as she massaged her crotch area in circular motions. 
       “How long can we spend together?” Charlie questioned the eager solicitors. 
       “We screw you long time.” 
       “Long long time, baby.” 
       Both Charlie and the hookers knew Vietnamese currency became rather worthless. Charlie pulled out a thin roll of American currency. He flipped through the bills and found a faded ten dollar bill. One of the ladies gladly accepted the money. 
       “Take clothes off, baby. We ready to fuckie fuckie and suckie suckie you.” 
       “You got big dick for us?” 
       Charlie came to his senses and realized his atrocious injury back in the jungles denied him the pleasures of sexual intercourse. He remembered how his genitals were blasted off by much of the enemy’s artillery. It hit him harder than a ton of iron bricks.  
       Both women clamped the mid-section of his pants. For the most bizarre reasons, he didn’t stop them. His pants and underwear were slid just past his knees. When the hookers saw he didn’t have the tools to pleasure neither himself nor them, they jumped back.  
       The only thing between his legs were thick layers of skin used to stitch up the tragic wound. Boisterous laughs shot across the room. Not having any sex organs to work with labeled him as a gala spectacle in some freak circus. The Vietnamese hookers laughed until they coughed and slumbered sideways. They’d made fun of Charlie and hurt him deeply. Why go into the brothel with them when he knew he couldn’t engage in sexual activity? 
       Charlie came back into the present of his apartment inside The Rosenberg. Lisa couldn’t stop laughing after she’d discovered he didn’t have any private parts. She walked to the front door to make an exit. Charlie rushed over and blocked her pathway with ferocity. The quick flashback of the hurting Vietnam episode startled his emotions.  
       The shakiness, muscle aches, sweating, cold and clammy hands, dizziness, fatigue, racing heart and dry mouth, these were the symptoms which signaled he’d transform into a monster. He squeezed the door handle and pressed his body harder against the door. 
       “Will you please let me out of here?” Lisa requested, frightened out of her mind. 
       “You’re not going anywhere, bitch!” Charlie growled through clenched teeth. 
       “I’ll scream. I’ll holler for help. I’ll call the police. I swear, I’ll do whatever is necessary.” 
       “Nothing can help you now, you lowlife disgusting whore!” 
       Lisa backed further into the apartment. She looked around with hopes of finding a phone. “Why don’t you let me go so we can just call it a night?” 
       “How dare you make fun of me not having my manhood between my legs!” Charlie flared, foam sizzling at the edges of his mouth. 
       “Look, I didn’t mean to grab your crotch. That was a mistake on my part. If you let me go, then I’ll forget about everything that happened.” 
       “Guess what, sweetheart. You’re not leaving my apartment alive. If I had my way, those two slant-eyed chink bitches in Vietnam wouldn’t’ve made it out of that whore house alive.” 
       “What are you talking about?” 
       “Two chink whores over in Vietnam made fun of me. They saw I didn’t have the tools to screw either one of them.” 
       Lisa put on her best sympathy face. “Please don’t hold that against me, Charlie.” 
       “You laughed at me when you felt my pants and knew that I had nothing down there.” 
       “I apologize if I offended you.” 
       “We’re way past apologies, bitch!” 
       “I’ll scream as loud as I can.” 
       “Screaming and yelling won’t do you any good.” 
       Lisa moved behind the sofa. She took a quick glance out the window. The moon glowed brighter only to bathe her face with sentiments of frightening uncertainties. Charlie vaulted towards Lisa and clamped her neck with beastly strength. His move happened almost lightning quick. She wasn’t allowed one second to scream. The pressure applied from his strong hands distorted her features. Her face turned a purplish red from hemorrhaging.  
       Lisa slumped to the ground at a gradual tempo. All oxygen was cut off as her last breath came forth. Charlie released his hands from around her neck. His fingerprints had sunk deep into her skin. Not one resident inside The Rosenberg Apartments heard a cry of death. He’d killed many times while serving his tour of duty over in Vietnam. Killing Lisa became his first domestic murder. Foreign murders were acceptable by his beloved U.S. Government.  
       Taking out an innocent woman would’ve never been acceptable. Charlie ran inside the bathroom and flicked on the light with vigor. He placed his nightmare-of-a-face square into the bathroom mirror. He’d become a mentally and emotionally sick man, and now the symptoms became more evident. Tears from fear of loss and abandonment burst from his eyes.  
       “War has on beginning, and it has no ending!” Charlie whined through gritted teeth. 
       He hit the light switch and exited the bathroom. He stood above Lisa’s dead body and studied her for just a moment. Feelings of guilt were easily suppressed by thoughts of how bad the Americans treated the Vietnamese during the war. Just another dead American woman was how Charlie felt at the moment. His next move? To dispose of her body in a quick and efficient manner. The craziest, yet the sickest thought struck him like electricity.  
       Chopping through tall vegetation in the jungles of Vietnam entered his deranged mind. He remembered the Full Tang Monster Machete he’d brought home from the war. Charlie went inside his walk-in closet and brought out the machete which’d dulled over the years. Layers of thick dust covered the blade and handle. Utensils were used to sharpen the blade to razor-sharp perfection.  
       Like a Samurai Warrior, Charlie held the machete high in the air. His back arched and he held a grip around the handle tighter than ever. He sprung forward and the first chop ripped straight through the Deltoid muscles and Pectoralis’ of Lisa’s arms and shoulders. The second and third chops expressed more savagery. They ripped into the upper Quadriceps and flexor muscles. 
       Blood formed a pool at least five feet wide. The arms and legs were now dismembered from the body of Lisa Wallace. Charlie didn’t realize it, but he’d created a few pounding noises which traveled back downstairs to the apartment of Derrick and Mitchell. And guess who came knocking at his door in the late night hours? 
       “Yeah, who is it?” Charlie answered, his voice edgy. 
       “It’s Derrick and Mitchell from downstairs,” Derrick spoke quite angrily. 
       “Yeah, what can I do for you?” 
       “For number one, you can stop making all that noise. There are people under you trying to sleep.” 
       “Sorry about that.” 
       “We do have to go to work in the morning.” 
       Charlie boiled over inside everytime the bothersome gay men showed up at his door. Faggots were the most irritable people in the world to him. 
       “Didn’t mean to wake you guys up.” 
       “What are you in there doing anyway?” 
       “Doing some housework.” 
       “At this time of night?” 
       “Had to put the finishing touches on something I started earlier.” 
       “Charlie, you do have neighbors. I’d hate to have’ta call the police or have the manager come and see you.” 
       “No, no, please don’t do that.” 
       Having the police or the manager show up at his apartment was the last thing on Earth Charlie needed. The murdered body of a woman was sprawled across his floor. A familiar odor saturated the air inside his apartment. The body’s swift decomposition had faltered into the hallway. 
       “Charlie, what’s that smell coming from inside your apartment?” Derrick questioned his weird neighbor, putting on the ugliest face ever. 
       “What smell?” Charlie asked. “I don’t smell nothing, guys.” 
       Dead bodies produced smelly gases right away. He should’ve known such things from having fallen over dead bodies in Vietnam.  
       “Did you forget to take out your trash?” 
       “My trash goes out when it should.” 
       “What, you let something rot or spoil?” 
       “Nothing’s rotten or spoiled in here.” 
       Nervous couldn’t begin to describe how Charlie felt. Did Derrick and Mitchell smell a dead body inside his apartment? 
       “Charlie, could you open the door, please?” Derrick requested, his patience running low. 
       “Guys, I’m not dressed right now.” 
       “We hear anymore noise up here, we’re going to call the police.” 
       “Quiet as a church mouse it what I’ll be from here on out.” 
       Charlie released a huge wind of relief when Derrick and Mitchell went back downstairs. The black and white faggots just had to bring their nosy asses upstairs to spring up some drama.            Charlie had a body to dispose of. Those industrial strength garbage bags were the ideal material to transport body parts. He went into the kitchen and looked under the sink for the garbage bags he used in his forty gallon trashcan.  
       The bloody torso of Lisa was placed inside one of the large bags by itself. The dismembered arms and legs were placed in another bag and tied real tight. Charlie looked out the window and onto the street. Mild traffic and not a single pedestrian was what he wanted to see. He crept to the door and peeked into the hallway. A thin transparency of darkness wavered down the stairs going to the front door. Complete silence came from the apartment of Derrick and Mitchell. Charlie felt now was the opportune time to make his move.  
       He snatched the bags up, locked his apartment door, looked all around upstairs, and then tiptoed down the stairs. He rushed outside in order to avoid detection. 
  CHAPTER—6 
       The moon seemed to have casted the brightest glow above Brush Creek. Charlie only had a few blocks to drive to arrive at the creek. Still waters of fresh sewage flowed through the concrete channels just upstream from The Country Club Plaza. Charlie looked down at his watch and the time read 1:25 a.m. Forget about being in bed and resting up for a long day ahead. He scanned the area for potential witnesses and then popped his trunk. To display his psychotic nature, he lifted the trashbags holding the torso and dismembered limbs. He lifted his head to the sky and offered the remains of Lisa Wallace as a sacrifice to Brush Creek. 
       “Almighty Brush Creek, I come to you on this early morning,” Charlie howled in a demented voice. “I make this offering to you. I make this sacrifice to you. I send all of my love out to you. Please, Almighty Brush Creek, take this as my supreme devotion to you.” 
       Charlie slung both bags and tossed them into the stream where the creek transitioned from its semi-natural state from The Country Club Plaza into its old concrete channel.  
       Sounds from nature crackled through the trees and from around the grass. Squirrels jumped from one branch to the other. Ducks and other birds trickled through the creek water. Rabbits hopped through the grass and nestled into their holes. Friends and family members never knew how Charlie tortured and killed animals in the wild of Brush Creek. No one had a clue how Charlie captured rabbits and squirrels with his bare hands and jabbed them with sharp rocks and sticks and derived pleasure from watching them squeal for mercy. The psychotic tendencies started well before he’d been shipped off to Vietnam.  
       Charlie returned to his apartment just before the stroke of 2:00 o’clock a.m. The blood from the dismembered body of Lisa Wallace dried into a cake formation. Those who smelled raw blood before knew it wasn’t a pleasant odor. Charlie ducked under his kitchen sunk in search of cleaning products. What he came out with were containers of Lysol, Pinesol, lemon ammonia, Ajax, and bleach.  
       Careful not to wake up Derrick and Mitchell, he quietly mixed one cleaning substance after another. He mopped and mopped until the water turned reddish black. He dumped one bucket after another until the hardwood floor was spotless. 
       Somehow, the odor still lingered in the air. Charlie fired up one incense stick after another. Large cans of Lysol and Airwick were sprayed to kill the smell. He raised all the windows facing Brush Creek, his favorite location in the Universe. Freshness made a comeback within minutes. The clock on the end table read 3:15 a.m. Charlie had to be up by 5:00 a.m. Fixing Lisa’s car, inviting her over for dinner, committing her brutal murder, and then dumping her body a half-mile away, was all in a day’s work. 
  CHAPTER—7 
       Spencer Cochran arose every morning at the crack of dawn to go out for his daily jog. As part of his routine, he ate his toast and slammed down his energy drink, kissed his wife and daughter, and headed right out the door. Long before residents around The Country Club Plaza awoke and got ready for work, he stood in the grass of Volker Park for a nice healthy stretch. Motorists fired up their car engines while pots of hot brewing coffee seeped through the cracks of houses around the creek. Spencer started his journey from the heart of The Country Club Plaza and jogged down a stretch of one mile into the Hyde Park area. 
       A layer of daylight expressed a dominance across the Kansas City skies. Wildlife arose from their inner sanctums to start their day. Spencer jogged along the concrete trail leading back into the heart of The Country Club Plaza. An unusual splash at the edge of the creek waters caught his direct attention. Curiosity led him over by the waters, only to discover an arm sticking out of a mud spotted trashbag. Spencer reached for the bag and dragged it onto the grass. 
       Another trashbag floated right up to the banks. Some turtles were perched on top and appeared to have been feasting on something. Spencer noticed how much heavier this one had been after lifting it onto the grass. He used a sharp rock to puncture a hole into the second bag. The goods inside did enough to make him skip the next ten meals. A torso in a terrible state of decay had been unveiled. Maggots in great numbers crawled on the outer surface of the bag. His discovery did enough to send him straight to a payphone near the busy streets of The Country Club Plaza. Spencer dropped two quarters into the payphone and punched in the emergency digits. 
       “Nine-one-one operator, what is your emergency?” the operator asked, her voice silky. 
       “My name’s Spencer Cochran and I’d like to report finding a dead body,” Spencer responded, the ghastly sight having stirred him up. 
       “Sir, what’s the location of this dead body?” 
       “Actually, I pulled it out of Brush Creek, right in the vicinity of the old Volker Park.” 
       “How long ago did you discover the body?” 
       “Not even twenty minutes ago.” 
       “Sir, police will be dispatched to the scene.” 
       “I might add that the body might’ve been dismembered.” 
       “Police officers will be arriving soon.” 
       “Thank you for your help.” 
       “You’re welcome.” 
       Spencer dropped the phone back on the receiver. Good vibes went through him after knowing he’d done the right thing. A decomposed body meant nothing to most people. Officers of every rank with the KCPD showed up at the scene.  
       They looked at the morbid discovery of Spencer Cochran.  
       Lead homicide detective Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet arrived minutes behind his colleagues, eager to go to work on his next assignment. Overstreet didn’t look bad for a fifty-eight year old man who’d spent thirty-four long stressful years with the KCPD. No smoking, very little alcohol, a fairly decent diet, routine exercising, and a loving wife with obedient kids to look after him, were the surviving tactics he’d attributed to his feet of longevity with the police department. Crime scene tape sectioned off the direct area where the body had been discovered.  
       Neighbors who lived near Brush Creek peeked out their windows. Some came out on their porches, pretending to get their morning paper or feed the dogs. Others listened to pick up a conversation about what had happened. More KCPD squad cars and news vans parked one right behind the other.  
       Dedicated veteran homicide detective Jerry Overstreet approached Sergeant David Eckerman for answers. “Sarge, what do we have?” 
       “A mutilated body found in the creek waters early this morning.” 
       “Any positive identification?” 
       “Not yet, but the coroner’s office is on the scene.” 
       “Who discovered the body?” 
       Sergeant Eckerman pointed over to Spencer Cochran. “The tall skinny guy standing over there in the blue Nike jogging suit.” 
       “Alright Sarge, if you and the other guys find anything substantial, make sure it gets to the crime lab. Make sure nothing’s removed from the scene until the body’s fingerprinted and loaded onto the wagon.” 
       “Will do, Lieutenant.” 
       Overstreet gained full respect from his colleagues because of his boldness. He made a beeline straight for Spencer. A handshake and a cordial smile were enough to signal he yearned for immediate answers. 
       “Sir,” Overstreet paused, ready to take notes on his pad. “I’m Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the Kansas City, Missouri Police Department. I’d like for you to tell me how you discovered the body in the creek waters.” 
       Spencer pointed to the calm waters of Brush Creek. “I’d been jogging near the banks and saw these turtles perched on top of two large trashbags. At first, I thought nothing of it since I thought the trashbags looked like a couple of sandbags. When I got up close, I saw an arm sticking out of one of the bags. Right then, I knew there was a body inside. I must confess, Lieutenant, that I dragged both bags out of the creek water and sat them in the grass. I know that it’s not customary for someone who finds a dead body to touch it.” 
       “You haven’t committed a crime, sir. Sometimes, the unknown makes us do our own investigation.” 
       “Next step was for me to contact the police. That’s when I went over into The Plaza and called nine-one-one.” 
       “Upon finding the body, were there any other people here in the creek?” 
       “No sir.” 
       “Are you sure?” 
       “Positive, Lieutenant, since I’m usually the only one out here jogging early in the morning.” 
       “What time do you start out jogging?” 
       “Five o’clock sharp.” 
       “Approximately what time did you make your discovery?” 
       “Somewhere, uh, between five-thirty and five-forty-five.” 
       “So again, you’re the only one out here during those early morning hours?” 
       “Yes I am.” 
       “Sir, we’ll need for you to come down to headquarters and give a statement.” 
       “No problem.” 
       “Thanks for your cooperation.” 
       “You’re welcome, Lieutenant.” 
       The next subject Lieutenant Overstreet made a beeline for was Dr. Anthony McKinnis. The renowned Jackson County Medical Examiner brought his top forensic kit to the scene. He’d geared up to do the type of work he lived for. Dr. McKinnis gained more answers for the inquisitive law enforcement community than a winning contestant on Jeopardy. Overstreet and Dr. McKinnis knew one another quite well, having worked together on countless homicide cases. Getting to the bottom of things by solving the most complicated murders fed their huge egos. 
       “Doc, whaddaya have on the vic so far?” Overstreet asked. 
       “First, we might have a sicko on our hands,” Dr. McKinnis noted, examining the torso quite closely. “Second, with this body not only being mutilated, the bloating and discoloration tells me that it’s been floating in the creek waters for over two weeks.” 
       “The jogger who found the body, he said he saw some turtles perched on top.” 
       “I’m sure the turtles feasted on the body. The perp who dumped this body into the creek, they worked in a calculated and systematic way.” 
       “Look doc, I’ll check missing persons records. Given the shape the vic’s in, the department is gonna try and make a positive identification, possibly distribute photographs to TV and newspapers. We’re hoping you guys can help us identify clothing markings or labels.” 
       “I’ll examine the remains for tattoos, scars, or birthmarks. If the need be, I’ll make impressions of teeth for possible dental identification.” 
       “Hope we catch this nut before he strikes again. You and I both know that killing gets good to these sonofabitches.” 
       “A couple of days, I should have something for you.” 
       “Doc McKinnis, you’re the best.” 
       Overstreet walked around the crime scene in search of further clues. Foot impressions, cigarette butts, and tire tracks were the main evidence he scrounged for. Nothing popped up for him and other detectives. If hair or semen or saliva samples were left on the body, Dr. McKinnis would be the genius who figured it out for the police department. 
       Overstreet turned to one of the officers with further instructions. “Alright guys, let’s close up the scene. The body’s already been taken to the morgue for examination. Let’s get all these onlookers back to where they belong.” 
       “Does that include the media, too, Lieutenant Overstreet?” 
       “You know we can’t escape from talking to those guys.” 
       “Like a sore that won’t heal.” 
       “You’re absolutely right, officer.” 
       “Hope the media vultures will leave something after the frenzy.” 
       Veteran anchorwman Stephanie Powers with KCTZ Newschannel Seven approached Overstreet with her aggressive camera crew. She gripped the microphone like an expert swordsman holding his sword.  
       “Lieutenant, what could you tell us about the body found floating in Brush Creek?” Stephanie asked Overstreet, a grave innocence in her eyes. 
       Overstreet looked over at the creek waters. “Right now, we have a white female, identification unknown, her dismembered body found in industrial trashbags.” 
       “Who discovered the body?” 
       “A jogger who comes out early in the morning to run along the Brush Creek walkway. This person has been taken to headquarters to give a statement.” 
       “Would you say that this is possibly the work of a serial killer?” 
       “It’s very possible.” 
       “What’re the plans of the police department in solving this homicide?” 
       “First, after a positive identification is made, we’re going to start questioning those closest to the victim. Second, we’re hoping that DNA evidence will lead us straight to the victim’s killer.” 
       “Why do you think the body was dumped in Brush Creek?” 
       “For convenience, possibly for calculated reasons.” 
       “Detective, thank you very much for your time.” 
       “You’re welcome.” 
       Stephanie stared straight into the camera. “Police are asking for help in solving this gruesome homicide. Callers can remain anonymous and there will be a reward leading to the capture of the victim’s killer. Please call the tips hotline at: 474-TIPS. This is Stephanie Powers reporting live from Brush Creek.” 
       From the KCPD to news crews, everyone disappeared from the wretched crime scene in which one psychotic bastard helped create. Answers hung in the balance about who could’ve killed a harmless woman. 
  CHAPTER—8 
       Sandy Barnholtz and her longtime lover Carol Wexler experienced their share of problems just like other couples. And like heterosexual couples, the lesbian couple argued constantly and had occasional fist fights. The making up after a scuffle was always worth it. Lovemaking seemed the best after building up high levels of tension. Carol complained non-stop about how Sandy burned too much incense. Sandy bitched about how Carol threw dirty clothes all around the house and wouldn’t cook. As of late, their lovemaking declined to points of non-satisfaction. Carol had issues about not being able to take her lover to heights of sexual euphoria. 
       “Tell me, babe, what’s happening with us?” Carol questioned Sandy, her face dropped. 
       “Nothing’s happening with us,” Sandy defended. “Why’d you bring up something happening with us?” 
       “When we make love, babe,” Carol huffed. “You lay there and act like you don’t even enjoy it. Something’s going on and you’re not telling me.” 
       “Everything’s fine.” 
       “Those energizing orgasms, what happened to you getting them? Your toes curling and legs flying into the air, what happened to that? You sweating and breathing like you’ve ran ten miles non-stop, what happened to that?” 
       Sandy jerked her head frontwards to lock eyes with Carol. “Carol, you can’t expect those things to happen everytime we make love. Maybe the mood isn’t always right. Maybe I’m not feeling so great or have things on my mind.” 
       “Are you cheating on me?” 
       “How absurd. I’ve been loyal to you every since we’ve been together.” 
       “Babe, I’d be crushed if I found out you cheated on me.” 
       “I’m your’s and your mine’s.” 
       “Forever and always?” 
       “Today, tomorrow, next week, next month, and yes, forever and always.” 
       Carol pulled Sandy across the sofa. She planted her pair of exclusive lips against Sandy’s. Hands went rubbing and gliding everywhere. A patch of heat created a pleasurable warmth between them. 
       “Wait, wait, wait,” Sandy delayed, clutching Carol’s shoulders. “We’ve got our women’s meeting tonight at seven o’clock.” 
       Carol bucked her eyes down at the watch. “Babe, you’re absolutely right. It’s ten til six and we’ve got to straighten up.” 
       “And get showered up and pretty for the other women.” 
       “Presentable, but not pretty.” 
       “Why not?” 
       “I don’t want those scavengers trying to feast on you.” 
       “Ahhhhh, I’m your’s until death do us part.” 
       “Don’t let me catch you flirting with nobody.” 
       “That’ll never happen.” 
       Sandy and Carol smacked each other with a kiss. Both went right for the shower.  
       Seven o’clock p.m. read on the big clock sitting on the wall. Women from every background poured into their home by the roomful. Sandy had prepared refreshments and drinks for their many guests. A legion of lesbian women met to discuss issues affecting them. Some showed up to blow off steam about how much they hated men. 
       Who’d ever known lesbians to like men? Their hatred for the male species ran deep into their bones. Their blood boiled hotter than volcanic lava. The army of extreme feminist women ate, drank, conversed, reminisced, and read over material written by Carol while Sandy prepared for their evening of male bashing. Chairs were set up around the living and dining rooms. Sandy set up the television and dvd player. Material on the dvd didn’t cater to the faint at heart. 
       “Ladies, ladies, can I please have your attention?” Sandy said in her commanding voice. “I’d like to thank you for coming out this evening to stand up once again for women’s rights. Carol and I called this meeting because we believe women are living in the most dangerous times in our history.” 
       A calm round of applauses sounded off around the room. 
       “Sandy and I are grateful that you’re in attendance,” Carol spoke, sipping on a light cocktail. “A series of unfortunate events affecting innocent women have taken place not only around the country, but right here in Kansas City. Ladies, we’ve got to come together and take a stand against these male monsters who’ve destroyed our lives.” 
       “We’ve compiled a documentary on dvd about a woman who’d been brutally beaten and raped by a group of four men and left to die. Miraculously, this woman survived the attack.                       We’ve also taped local news stories about two recent homicides, six rapes, ten burglaries, and twenty-nine assaults, of course, all of them crimes against innocent women.” 
       “Alright ladies, I hope you get the message in this story.” 
       Sandy pressed the play button to the dvd player. The narrator jumped right into the story. The story took place in the small rural city of Anderson, South Carolina. The nature of the crime had been especially brutal. Sandy and Carol and their loyalist women watched in awe as the story unfolded. It told how the ninety pound victim had been raped and beaten for four hours inside a hotel room. The victim was burned repeatedly with cigarettes and cigarette lighters. She’d been slashed with a broken liquor bottle. The narrator sympathetically explained how the poor soul nearly bled to death.  
       The four animals who violated the innocent woman were captured. American Justice saw how she looked inside her hospital room, nearly dying from a severe loss of blood. They observed her lying in her hospital bed hooked up to a complete life-support system. The perpetrator’s punishment? A veteran South Carolina judge ordered all four lowlives to be surgically castrated along with ten years probation. The defense side argued how surgical castration was a cruel and inhumane form of punishment.  
       The prosecution side argued back how the nature of their crimes were cruel and inhumane. The savages who raped and assaulted the woman ended up doing ten years on a thirty year sentence. Sandy pressed the stop button on the dvd player. Carol scanned the front room and dining room. She saw nothing but steamingly hostile faces. All the women in attendance were furious. Some barely stood still.  
        If their anger was collected and bottled up, a bomb of nuclear or atomic proportions would’ve exploded. 
       Sandy grabbed her cocktail and moved to the middle of the floor. “Ladies, what you just saw on that taped documentary is real. What we all witnessed was one of many cruel and inhumane crimes against women. Men have violated us long enough, and we’re here to say that we’re not going to stand for it any longer.” 
       A rumbling applause sounded off throughout the house. Some women stood up with intentions of starting a mini-protest. 
       Carol moved closer in front of Sandy. “Sandy’s right, ladies. We’ve had enough of men treating us like indisposable garbage. Throughout the years, we’ve been beat on, cheat on, shit on, spit on, pissed on, kicked up and down, tossed sideways, and thrown to be eaten by wolves and vultures. Ladies, we’ve fucking had enough!” 
       Again, an emotionally-charged applause echoed from inside and outside the house. Chants of women’s rights and justice became infectious. 
       “Now, we’ve opened the floor to discussion,” Sandy told the attendees. The glare of fury burned in her eyes. 
       The first radical lesbian to showcase her presence was Cynthia Garrington. Standing a mere five-foot-two, she weighed in at an awesome two-hundred and twenty pounds. Her shoulders were broad and hips wide enough to block a narrow doorway. Like Carol, she sported the usual spiked hair with assorted colors and tattoos along her arms. 
       “What we just saw in that goddamned story disgusts me!” Cynthia vocalized with steam, her voice coarse and deep. “Here you’ve got four animals, ones who just had to take advantage of a tiny little woman who only weighed ninety pounds soak and wet. Those Neanderthals just had to burn her and cut her like some freak in a fucking circus. They had to rape her and beat her and then leave her for dead. You see, that’s why I’ve learned to hate men. My first two husbands cheated on me, came home drunk, and then nearly beat me into a coma. Sometimes, they’d screw other women right in my face. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had enough and will do anything in my power to stop the abuse we women have suffered for too long.” 
       Cynthia received an ovation like none other. She felt the love from her comrades and embraced every second of it. 
       “Who else has a story they’d like to share with us?” Carol asked, the room getting fired up. 
       Shannon Murphy raised her arm high towards the ceiling. She represented the more civil side of feminism, a medium height and build suited better towards her character.  
       She stood up and shot off much arsenal. “Ladies, we saw how bloody that hotel room was after those four barbarians raped and beat her. We saw how bloody the mattress and the floor were from her bleeding like a cow in a slaughter house. All of us heard her explain how she just wanted to die, how she literally prayed and asked to die. It’s bad when you no longer have a will to live after somebody has repeatedly burned you with cigarettes and lighters, and then have sliced you all along your body with empty whiskey bottles. Everyone here tonight can feel one another’s pain. Like Cynthia said, we’re not going to stand for it any longer.” 
       They wanted justice and wanted it now. Anger of epidemic proportions filled the house.  
  Had any man walked into the home of Sandy and Carol, the women’s adrenalin alone would’ve killed them.  
       “Yes, yes, ladies, that’s what I’m talking about!” Sandy jolted excitingly. “Who else has something they’d like to share either about themselves or the story we just saw?” 
       Laurie Schumann would be next to display her courage.  
       Laurie wore the scars of abuse not only on the outside, but her interior got ripped away with constant headaches and heartaches from years of being with a man who treated her like ragdoll. “It’s not easy getting in front of people and telling your stories of abuse and neglect. But I feel as though we’re all sisters who’ve become a support system for one another. We’re here for another in times of grief and displacement. The story we just saw has raised quite a few eyebrows among us. Yes, the four men who assaulted and raped that woman should’ve been given castration and a hundred years, not the optional thirty years. Again, we heard the woman mention in the interview how she wanted to die. We heard her tell how she had lost so much blood, how those barbaric savages had control over her and treated her like useless sewage.” 
       Laurie received a most welcoming applause. Her support group high-fived one another and turned to give one another hugs. 
       “Very well said, Laurie,” Carol agreed, followed by vigorous applauses. “Who else would like to share their story with us?” 
       Sheena Sawyer threw her arm straight into the air. Carol and Sandy recognized how she’d been eager to speak. Sheena also represented a calmer side of feminism, her body frame svelte and facial features alluring.  
       Like the others, she too had her own horror stories about domestic abuse. “Ladies, I must say that it is an honor to attend another one of our meetings. I share the pain that all of you have experienced. I share the pain that the woman in the story went through. Being cut and burned by a group of animals is quite traumatic. About five years ago, I was nearly raped by a man who’d violated his parole. I was asleep and felt a knife against the back of my neck. I rolled around and there was some man in a stocking cap over his face standing above my bed. He immediately jumped on top of me and cupped my mouth with one hand while trying to pull my underwear down and force his penis in my backside. I fought and scratched to the point of my fingernails digging deep enough to have his skin underneath my nails. It was a miracle that I was able to slide my mouth to the middle of his arm and bite the living hell out of this crazy sonofabitch. Once he threw his arm back, I screamed from the top and bottom of my lungs. Blood from his arm dripped onto my bed sheets. After screaming for more than a minute, neighbors from the first floor ran upstairs to see what was happening. My attacker, my potential rapist, he jumped off the second floor balcony and one of my first floor neighbors saw him running off down the street.” 
       The applauses grew louder and more aggressive. Sheena was the victorious underdog. How good it felt to her support group for her attacker to have come up emptyhanded. 
       “See ladies, we do have stories with advantageous endings,” Sandy marveled behind, bowing her head with ultimate joy. “We now open the floor again for someone to share their story.” 
       Loretta Fredericks wanted her voice to be heard. One of only three African-American women in attendance, she tightened her fists and shut both eyes. Her emotions had taken over. When she opened her eyes, she saw other sets of of sympathetic eyes watching her. 
       “Let me say this first,” Loretta gloated from anger. “A rapist cannot be rehabilitated. If they rape once, they’ll rape again and again. I have a story that I’d like to share that I believe all of you ladies can learn from. This lowdown dirty unrighteous dog who raped me came in through my first floor window. He’d made his way up to the second floor bedroom where myself and my set of four year old twin daughters were sleeping. I just happened to awake and saw him standing over my bed wearing a mask that he’d made out of one of my twins’s T-shirt. My God, I thought me and my twins were going to die. He and I fought for awhile, and then suddenly the phone rang. One of my twins picked up the phone and he kicked her in the chest. I told my daughter to put the phone down before he’d do something bad to her. He then took a straight razor and cut me across my left cheek.” 
       Loretta paused momentarily to catch her breath. Other attendees observed as they were shown  the nasty scar on her left cheek. A deep gash could’ve better described the mark which had layers of much epidermis missing. 
       “I had to have fifty stitches in my face,” Loretta continued, emotions running loose around the house. “I continued to fight him and he grabbed one of my twins by her ponytail. He threatened to cut her throat if I didn’t do as he told me. He proceeded to rape me for the next few hours. Things only got worse when he decided to tie me up and burn me repeatedly on my back with cigarettes. During the whole time I was tied up, he drank all the liquor in the house and fed both of my twins cereal. Recently, I’ve met other women he’s assaulted and have labeled this man as being an absolute dangerous sex offender.” 
       Applauses for Loretta vibrated throughout the house. She and others couldn’t hold back the tears built up deep inside them. Their anger flared up hotter than several erupting volcanoes.  
       “Loretta, we appreciate you sharing your tragic story with us,” Carol commended, beaming with great pride. “Now Sandy has a story she’d like to share with all of us.” 
       Sandy positioned herself at the core of the front room.  
       She gathered her thoughts before speaking. “Ladies, it wasn’t too long ago that my dog Bolo and I went for a nightly walk through Brush Creek. From out of nowhere, there came a strange man, someone with a badly-pitted face and black rotted teeth. After listening to him talk, I could tell that he was some shellshocked Vietnam veteran who was obsessed with Brush Creek. His exact words described Brush Creek as being the greatest historical piece of American landmarks. When I spotted him holding a sharp piece of glass, that’s when I sicked my dog Bolo on him. Bolo rushed him for an attack. My canine protector was at a sole disadvantage since this psycho bastard knew how to kill everything from humans to animals. He sliced Bolo up like an animal in a slaughterhouse. When he rushed me, I kicked and scratched and grabbed him by what I thought were his private parts. This man didn’t even have any privates down there and I found it mind boggling. He ran away when he knew he couldn’t take advantage of me. My story is sort of parallel to the woman’s story we saw on the dvd. It was tragic for her to be cut severely with a broken whiskey bottle. The four men who raped her should’ve been given surgical castration and life without parole. Why this man didn’t have a penis or scrotum is something I’ll never know.” 
       “Did you notify the police about this maniac?” asked Bonnie Arthurs, one of the more boisterous feminists among the group. 
       Sandy looked away in shame. “No, no, I didn’t notify anyone about it.” 
       “Why not, Sandy? That sadistic sonofabitch could be out there right now raping and killing some other woman.” 
       “And you’re right, Bonnie. Like Loretta said, they’ll rape again and again, and they won’t stop until they’re either caught by the police or somebody kills them.” 
       “I’m not trying to beat up on you, but you should’ve notified the authorities about this jerk.” 
       “Not doing so, it makes me feel nothing but guilt and shame. The trauma behind the whole situation left me speechless and confused. Thank God there’s Carol around to buffer me and show me the love and support someone needs in times of crisis.” 
       Carol reached for a recent copy of “The Kansas City Times”. The front of the daily Kansas City Newspaper read:  JOGGER FINDS MUTILATED BODY IN BRUSH CREEK.  
       All eyes moved the same direction when Carol flashed the newspaper before them.  
       Their minds quickly processed the information.  
       Their hearts grieved as their eyes watered from sympathy. What a shame to read about the condition the victim was found in.  
       “Ladies, this is why we can never be too careful,” Carol reminded the attendees. “This is why we have to keep our eyes on everyone. From the bums, winos, crackheads, gangbangers, even to the bankers and businessmen wearing expensive business suits driving Mercedes and BMWs, we have to keep watchful eyes on everyone. When you drive into gas stations and convenience stores at night, look all around you. When you pull into ATM machines and fast food drive-thrus, look all around you. When you’re going to pick up your family and friends, look all around you. Whether it be day or night, look around you for potential muggers and rapists.” 
       “Carol’s right, ladies,” Sandy confirmed. “No matter where you’re at, always be watchful. This woman found mutilated in Brush Creek had been assaulted and dismembered at the limbs and stuffed into trashbags.” 
       “This may sound like a stupid question,” Shannon Murphy said. “But do you think the same man who tried to assault you, he could’ve been the one who killed and dismembered the woman found floating in Brush Creek?” 
       “It’s very possible.” 
       “Not telling the police what happened to you could be his free pass to kill and dismember other women.” 
       The guilt Sandy already felt only intensified.  
       She huffed a strong breath and said, “Shannon, I must say that you’re right. But it’s never too late to go down to police headquarters and let them know.” 
       “I couldn’t agree more.” 
       The guilt sort of eased up. 
       “Let me say that I’m proud of all of you women for having the courage to stand up and speak out, by doing everything humanly possible to make our communities safer places to live. A lot of women feel terrorized by the men who rape them. They feel guilty and blame themselves. They don’t follow through with helping to put these scumbags on trial, putting other women at risk.” 
       Carol interjected into the topic. “By standing up against these men who derive pleasure from violating and humiliating women, you have empowered other women to take action.” 
       Sandy tapped Carol on the shoulder. “Ladies, we have a very special guest with us tonight. She’s someone who wants to help prevent other women from being attacked and raped by the same man who nearly left her for dead. Though it’s been three years since she’d been brutally raped, she believes this man is still out there raping other women. Ladies, I’d like to introduce to you, Mary Saladino.” 
       Mary received the warmest welcome. In fact, every woman stood as she stepped to the front. She parked her petite frame at the front and center of the room. 
       “Thank you very much for that wonderful reception,” Mary delightfully acknowledged. “The night I was raped was the most horrible night of my life. I had gone downstairs to do laundry. The rapist, because that’s what he really was since real men don’t rape, jumped from behind a row of washing machines. He split my head open with an iron tire rod. This savage beast jumped on top of me and raped me repeatedly. This rapist wasn’t your typical rapist since he wore surgical gloves to keep from leaving fingerprints behind. After he ejaculated inside of me, he poured bleach and dish washing liquid inside of me to contaminate any evidence of DNA from his semen. I could hear myself screaming as loud as possible. Hearing yourself scream is the worst feeling possible, not knowing what he’s going to do to you next.” 
       The women had bewildered looks on their faces. 
       “You being raped in such a brutal way, how has it changed your life?” asked Sheena Sawyer, sharing sentiments similiar to Mary. 
       “Every single day, I hope that he’s caught,” Mary continued. “I wasn’t his first victim, and I’m sure I won’t be his last. I hope that no one goes through what I went through, because it does change your life forever. In the hour and a half that he beat and raped me, I didn’t know who I was, and didn’t know what I was. Everything that I knew previously up to that point had been washed away.” 
       “What about response from authorities?” Shannon Murphy intervened. “What about response from your community?” 
       Mary cleared her throat. “Law enforcement was really good. I have nothing bad to say about them. As a matter of fact, the detective assigned to my case became one of my good friends and was a bridesmaid in my wedding. So something good became of something bad. Unfortunately, the hospital treated me real bad. I remember lying on the table waiting for my mother and my boyfriend to get there. Some doctor walks in with a clipboard and asks me how was I going to pay for my treatment. I didn’t care how I was going to pay after surviving a beating and raping that nearly killed. I didn’t care how the hospital was going to be compensated for treating me.” 
       Sandy weaved in and said, “Didn’t you use your frustration by taking action and getting some legislation passed?”   
       “Here in Missouri, I helped get Bill 388 passed, which prohibits rape victims from paying for forensic exams.” 
       Applauses came from every corner of the adjoining rooms.   
       Mary stirred up emotions and jumpstarted hope for all the women. 
       “Everyone, this is to give you guys a heads up on what our future plans are. We plan to go to the legislature here in Missouri and have Victim Notification laws passed, so that when these men who have assaulted and raped you get out of prison, you can know where they are living.” 
       “And we sure hope they never get out of prison,” Carol attested. “But in most cases they are released from prison.”  
       Mary stamped on a few more words. “It is our right to know where these predators are living. When potential victims are at risk, they must know about these sexual monsters, they should be tipped off as to their whereabouts. It’s not the sheriffs and the policemen who are at risk, it’s the women who are unsuspecting about these psychos.” 
       “Remember ladies, rapists are shrewdly mobile,” Sandy added. “For you unfortunate ones who were raped, you guys don’t even know of their whereabouts. These maniacs don’t know just one community.” 
       “Rape is one of the worst tragedies any woman could ever suffer,” Mary cried out to the others. “During the whole time I was being raped, it felt like a man masturbating inside of me with a piece of sandpaper. I ended up with ten staples in my head. I was afraid to leave my house and quit my job after I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It affected my relationship with my boyfriend and my family. Months after the incident, I couldn’t have a peaceful night’s sleep. Things turned for the worst as time went on. My stress level and blood pressure rose to dangerous levels.” 
       Sandy ended the women’s session with her final thoughts. “Ladies, we have to take every precaution available to prevent ourselves from being attacked and raped. God rest Bolo’s canine soul, but had it not been for him, I too, would’ve become another statistic. Had it not been for my martial arts training, I probably wouldn’t be here speaking to any of you. The woman found by the jogger floating along the waters in Brush Creek, her limbs amputated from her body, I found that quite disturbing. Yes, I thought to myself how that could’ve been me that night when I took Bolo for a walk. Ladies, I end this session by telling you to be careful, watch yourselves inside and outside your home, be very leary of strangers, and carry some protection with you at all times. Carol and I appreciate your attendance and may God bless all of you.” 
       The attendees finished off their drinks and refreshments and chatted amongst one another. Sandy and Carol escorted them out the house before retiring for the evening. 
  CHAPTER—9 
       Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet began the early stages of his homicide investigation. Enough bodies to fill a junior college classroom occupied the coolers inside the morgue at the Harry S. Truman Medical Center. Detective Overstreet left the Brush Creek crime scene a few days earlier puzzled about the homicide victim found floating in trashbags along the creek banks. Who’d do such a horrific thing to an innocent woman like Lisa Wallace?  
       It was the precise question he asked himself when the coroners loaded the dismembered body inside the wagon. Overstreet stepped under the bright lights inside the morgue. There to greet him was the best forensic medical science had to offer. Dr. Anthony McKinnis made some nerve shattering discoveries during his days of examining the mutilated corpse. 
       “Hey doc, what’cha find out?” Overstreet questioned Dr. McKinnis. He stood just a short distance from the autopsy table. 
       “It’s never nothing pretty, detective,” Dr. McKinnis replied, his voice gone sour. 
       “Had the vic been in one piece and not badly decomposed, then it would’ve made our job a lot easier.” 
       Dr. McKinnis had everything detailed for Overstreet. “Detective, this vic suffered profound cyanosis. My diagnosis leads me to believe that a pair of very strong hands strangled her to death. The discoloration around her neck indicates that the deoxygenated blood cut off oxygen to her brains and lungs.” 
       Overstreet moved closer to the autopsy table. “Doc, any signs of a struggle?” 
       “Serious signs of a struggle,” Dr. McKinnis confirmed, moving the bright lamp closer to her torso and dismembered limbs. “Bruises here on the upper chest and arms indicate that she tried to fight off her attacker.” 
       “Any DNA from the perp?” 
       “None whatsoever, detective.” 
       “That’s strange.” 
       “The raw sewage and other pollutants in Brush Creek, not to mention the fish and turtles in the creek, would’ve washed and eaten away or contaminated any sufficient form of DNA.” 
       “I guess the psycho who did this knew how to cover up his tracks.” 
       “He wasn’t a novice at this.” 
       “Any signs of rape, doc?” 
       “Had there been any traces of semen or saliva left on the victim, the creek water would’ve washed it right away. Plus, I swabbed the vaginal area for possible traces of semen or pubic DNA from the perp. None of her genitalia area showed signs of sexual deviant intercourse.” 
       “And you’d swear your medical license on that?” 
       Dr. McKinnis was an expert who knew his stuff. 
       “Detective, I swabbed the anal, oral, and vaginal mucosa of this victim. She definitely wasn’t raped.” 
       “No bite or teeth marks on the victim?” 
       “Not an inch anywhere on her body.” 
       “The mutilation, tell me about that.” 
       “Well now,” Dr. McKinnis paused, gathering his thoughts. “That’s the part that puzzles even me. The perpetrator knew precisely where and how to mutilate the body. The instrument or weapon used is what boggles me the most.” 
       “Boggles you? How?” 
       Dr. McKinnis used one of his powerful pen lights to show Overstreet one of the dismembered legs. “The legs were separated right at the Quadriceps Femoris.” 
       “Making this psycho’s work less complicated?” 
       “Exactly.” 
       “We’ve possibly got a barbaric maniac on our hands.” 
       “The arms were separated along the Deltoid Muscles. In my years and in this line of work, I’ve examined vics mutilated with knives and saws and swords, but never with a Machete.” 
       “Aren’t swords and machetes one in the same?” 
       “Not quite.”	      
       Dr. McKinnis moved the bright lamp closer to the skin on the mutilated arm. “If you’ll observe rather closely, the blade which made contact with and ripped through the skin and bones, it belongs to that of a Full Tang Monster Machete.” 
       “How do you know it was that model of machete?” 
       Again, Dr. McKinnis worked and studied long enough to know his stuff. 
       “The Full Tang Monster Machetes are rare models of machetes. I matched up the heat anondized stainless steel blade featured in manuals on machetes with the exact blade used to dismember our victim.” 
       “So the cuts along the skin and into the bone tells the story?” 
       “The blade on that machete has ultimate cutting power.” 
       “I’d say so.” 
       “Another thing, detective. Full Tang Monster Machetes were used during the Vietnam War to chop through the mile high vegetation in the jungles of Saigon and the Viet Cong.” 
       “But who’d have access to one of them if they were used in the Vietnam? That war’s been over for more than thirty-something years.” 
       “Guessing is something I’m not good at, but maybe our perp is some shellshocked Vietnam veteran.” 
       “Maybe he got’a hold of a machete and decided he liked killing with it.” 
       “Mutilation isn’t something new to the perp.” 
       “Could you tell me how long the body floated around in the creek before the jogger found her?” 
       Dr. McKinnis scanned the torso and the arms and legs before making his assessment. “A body goes through five major stages of decomposition, which are fresh, bloat, decay, dry and remains. She reached the stage of decay, in which I’d say she floated around the creek for a little more than two weeks. Frigid temperatures kept the insects from feasting on her and leaving her nothing but bones.” 
       “Kinda preserved her a little longer?” 
       “Exactly.” 
       “You already told me the approximate time of death at the crime scene. Any traces of drugs or alcohol in her system.” 
       “None whatsoever. Toxicology reports showed her system as clean as the health department.” 
       “Let me ask you this, doc. Any markings on the body which could’ve linked her to this psychopath?” 
       “I’ll tell ya, I’ve examined every square inch of the torso and limbs. From the front to the sides, I found no lesions, tattoos, moles, or scars.” 
       “Alright doc, thanks for all your hard work. Make sure an autopsy report reaches my desk by tomorrow. We’ve got to turn this woman over to her family for burial.” 
       “You’ll have the report first thing in the morning.” 
       Overstreet went out of the morgue rattling his brains for answers. 
  CHAPTER—10 
       Steam from a piping hot cup of coffee simmered across the desk of Overstreet inside the homicide division of the KCPD. Mounds of paperwork toppled his desk from murder case files yet to be solved. To the detectives assigned to various murder cases, their work was never done. A colleague of Overstreet once joked how they’d never be unemployed since murder was a twenty-four hour business. People killed one another seven days a week and the cycle seemed to have never stopped.  
       Walking into the cluttered office of Overstreet was a tall, lean, handsome, and intelligent homicide detective named Carey “Corky” Schroeder. He got the name “Corky” from talking way too much as a child. People wished they could’ve stuck in a cork in his mouth to shut him up. Carey now worked in a profession where he could never talk too much. Communication between detectives were vital to solving the most complicated murder cases. Two other detectives followed Carey into the office. 
       “What’cha got for me, Schroeder?” Overstreet asked the detective who had far less experience than himself. 
       Carey opened a folder with vital statistical information on their victim. “Victim’s been identified as Lisa Wallace, a white female, fifty-one years of age, a twenty-eight year employee with the Internal Revenue Service.” 
       “How’d missing persons identify her?” 
       “Dental records came back from the lab earlier this morning.” 
       Carey handed over a set of photos of Lisa Wallace. “We also ran her SSN through the database and found out she was born and raised the first twenty-two years of her life in Saint Joseph, Missouri. Came to Kansas City to start her career with the IRS.” 
       “Was she ever married?” 
       “Never a husband.” 
       “Children?” 
       “No children.” 
       “Any siblings?” 
       “One sister who still lives in Saint Joseph.” 
       “Parents?” 
       “Both deceased.” 
       “The victim’s established address?” 
       “North of the river, believed to be in the Gladstone area.” 
       “Find out the exact address of the vic. Once you find out her established residence, talk to some of her neighbors and associates in that neighborhood.” 
       “Will do, Jerry.” 
       “Her car was found abandoned about a mile east of where the jogger found her body.” 
       “The killer probably dumped the body and then drove her car to a location he felt comfortable with.” 
       “Any word from the impound lot?” 
       “No word about any evidence yet.” 
       “Doc McKinnis believes this Lisa Wallace was murdered between the hours of 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m., then dumped somewhere in Brush Creek. She possibly visited the perp in the early evening hours the day she was murdered. Only her and the perp would know these things.” 
       “It’s unfortunate we don’t have neither one of them here at headquarters.” 
       “Check with the landlord of her apartment complex and see what you can find out. See if you can pinch any possible names out of him or her.” 
       “You’ve got it.” 
       “In the meantime, I’m gonna pay the IRS a visit to see what I can find out.” 
       “After twenty-eight years there, I’m sure she made a whole lot of friends.” 
       “Hopefully, friends who can tell me what I need to get leads on this case.” 
   
   
   
   
       Overstreet grabbed his suitjacket and snatched up a folder off his desk. He walked out of his office with Carey and the other two detectives behind him. 
  CHAPTER—11 
       Detective Overstreet showed up at the main section for security guards inside the massive Internal Revenue Service building just south of downtown Kansas City. A group of six guards stood on the other side of a sophisticated area of confidentiality. Monitors covering most areas inside and outside the complex were built into the west wall. Three phones rested on tables lined against the east wall.  
       “Yes sir, can I help you?” asked a short and skinny African American guard. Firmly, he gripped the handle of his gun. 
       Overstreet reached into the pocket of his suitjacket and flashed his badge. “I’m Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the Homicide Division of the KCPD.” 
       “Yes, we’ve been expecting you detective,” the guard responded with a cordial smile. 
       “I was supposed to meet with a lady named Cindy Montgomery.” 
       He flipped through a log with several numbers. 
       “Yes, Cindy left a note with us that she was supposed to meet with someone from the KCPD.” 
       “She told me she’d leave a note.” 
       “I’ll just give her a call.” 
       The guard dialed the number and waited for a response. “Cindy, this is Calvin Yearby down at the guard’s desk. There’s a Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD down here to see you.” 
       Cindy’s loud voice was heard over the phone. “Oh yes, I’ve been expecting Lieutenant Overstreet.” 
       “Well, he’s here to see you.” 
       “Could you please send him up?” 
       “Certainly will do, Cindy.” 
       The guard hung up and took out a visitor’s pass form. “Lieutenant, could I have you to fill out this form?” 
       “Sure can,” Overstreet said with delight. 
       “I’ll have another one of the guards escort you up to the data conversion branch.” 
       “You’re much too kind, young man.” 
       “Just doing my job.” 
       Overstreet filled out the form. The guard handed him a visitor’s badge and the journey through the huge IRS complex began. The twosome first went through a set of revolving glass doors. After that, they stepped onto an escalator which resembled a two block treadmill. Once they reached the lower level, they got onto an elevator which took them up to the second floor. This is where Overstreet’s sightseeing got real interesting. People from different walks of life traveled to and from their offices and designated areas.  
       Their badges were used to pop open doors from one end of the building to the other. Overstreet noticed women of every shape, size, and color. The fat, the skinny, the medium-sized, the short, the tall, and the mid-height ones were noticed. The black, white, hispanic, and oriental ones were also noticed. The elegantly-dressed to the trashy-dressed ones drew fine lines between themselves. According to Overstreet’s taste, the pickings were still quite slim. 
       “The women around here aren’t too bad,” Overstreet told the security guard as they walked down the long busy hallway. 
       “Depends on what your flavor is,” the guard replied. “Personally, I like blondes, about five-nine, big round tits, nice natural tan, and long toned legs.” 
       “Guess you haven’t found anyone around here like that.” 
       “Not even close.” 
       “So, you won’t find a woman of drop dead, knockout caliber around here?” 
       “Again, not even close.” 
       Overstreet continued observing as they walked towards the data conversion branch of the building. His assessment of the people were fair to partly cloudy. The whites looked upon the blacks to be some of the worst their race had to offer. The blacks looked upon the whites to be some of the worst their race had to offer. The blacks were labeled as “no good niggers” and “dirty thieving coons”. The whites were readily labeled as “toxic trailerpark waste” and “redneck lowlife trash”. 
       “About how many employees do you have here at the IRS?” Overstreet asked. 
       The guard gave a quick calculation. “During peak season, which is usually between March and May, we have about three thousand employees on the dayshift, and about twenty-five hundred employees on the nightshift.” 
       “You guys have your work cut out for you.” 
       “What an understatement.” 
       “Do you guys have enough manpower to deal with the employee population?” 
       “I think so.” 
       “Don’t the employees here at the IRS have to be free of any felony convictions?” 
       “Absolutely,” the guard validated. “Some slip through the cracks with minor misdemeanor charges. Criminal Investigation here at the IRS does a great job of checking into everyone’s background.” 
       “Excuse me for being so direct, but some of these people around here look like they’re fresh out of jail. I’ve seen some hardened criminals look more legit than a lot of these people walking around here.” 
       “Some might agree with you.” 
       Translation, some of the blacks looked like crips and bloods, while some of the whites looked like klan members and dirty bikers.” 
       “A lot of the women aren’t far behind.” 
       “I’d have to agree with that, too.” 
       “Isn’t there a dress code for these IRS employees?” 
       “Besides not letting their pants drop past their waist, or not letting their skirt or dresses raise up past their waistline, there’s no certain dress code around here.” 
       “Working for the government has its privileges.” 
       “Sometimes, I wish they’d get stricter on hygiene and cleanliness.” 
       “That bad, huh?” 
       “You don’t know the worst of it.” 
       “Appearances don’t lie.” 
       “Before you leave this building, you’ll hear some of the horror stories.” 
       “What horror stories?” 
       “Ahhhhh, that’s the surprise.” 
       Overstreet and the guard moved to the busiest section of the IRS complex known as Main Street. The cafeteria had many hungry souls waiting to be served. The problem of extreme obesity flashed before the eyes of Overstreet. Double bellies and triple chins and excess ass flopped from every direction. The overweight men and women rushed from the food line to pay for their meals, only to disappear and gobble it down like human trash compactors. 
       “Bringing a weight loss program into the IRS wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Overstreet whispered to the guard. He watched the masses of people travel to and from the cafeteria and eating areas. 
       “Got that right, lieutenant,” the guard agreed, getting Overstreet closer to the data conversion branch. 
       “The people here eat as though it’s their hobby and job.” 
       “That I can tell.” 
       “Weight loss programs would have a field day up in here. In every department here at the IRS, these people make up excuses to have dinners. Someone gets promoted, they’ll have a dinner. Someone gets married, they’ll have a dinner. Someone gets transferred to another department, they’ll have a dinner. Someone gets pregnant, they’ll have a dinner.” 
       “For those reasons, I can see them having lots and lots of dinners.” 
       “Most certainly, lieutenant. A whole slew of these women come back pregnant every season. Some of the same ones will come back pregnant season-after-season.” 
       “Having one baby after another, huh?” 
       “Screwing like there’s no tomorrow.”  
       “Well, lots of people do that when they’re horny and bored with their lives.” 
       Overstreet and the guard finally came to the section where his visitor’s badge allowed him entrance to the massive data conversion branch. Once he walked past the electronic double doors, a massive floor of computers and ergonomic chairs shot his eyes wide open. The guard pointed to the exact section where Cindy Montgomery could be found. Workers sifted through piles of paperwork while others tapped on their computer keyboards. Many worked hard to complete their assignments.  
       Employees throughout the data conversion branch worked their fingers raw to meet their required quota and to gain incentive bonus checks. The money came in handy when you had lots of children to take care of. Having a lazy man at home who sat on his ass all day and watched television or played video games didn’t help matters. Yes, plenty of the hardworking IRS women allowed their men to lie around and be worthless bums.  A tall and well-proportioned woman with fire red hair pushed back into a long ponytail waved for Overstreet to come her direction. 
       “You must be Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD,” Cindy recognized, extending her hand for a cordial handshake. 
       “Lieutenant Overstreet I am,” Overstreet grinned, extending his hand out to Lisa. 
       “Welcome to the IRS, lieutenant.” 
       “Thank you. And you are?” 
       “I’m Cindy Montgomery, branch chief for data conversion here at the IRS.” 
       “And I take it there are several other branches in this department?” 
       “Yes, there are.” 
       “And you’re responsible for all the employees in this department?” 
       “That’s right.” 
       “Also responsible for their attendance, work performance, employee interaction, and subordination?” 
       “Right again.” 
       “Their payroll checks, medical insurance, employee benefits, and retirement?” 
       “I see you’ve done your homework, lieutenant.” 
       Cindy closed the door to her office and locked it for ultimate privacy.  
       Overstreet was seated and flipped open a folder with information about Lisa Wallace. “Before I came to visit with you here at the IRS, I checked into the background of Lisa Wallace. I checked out the nature of her work and responsibilities here at the IRS. Wasn’t Lisa a section chief around this department?” 
       Cindy felt great compassion for Lisa. “Yes detective, Lisa rose up through the ranks of being a section chief. Everybody here at the IRS already knows what happened to her.” 
       “I’m sure they do.” 
       “We passed memos around the entire IRS complex, letting all the employees know what had happened to Lisa. Most people showed up to work talking about it since they either saw it on the news or read about it in the newspaper. We had a prayer vigil for her out there on Main Street.” 
       “Sources have told me that you guys were pretty close.” 
       “Yes, we were closer than most of the people around here. We often hung out after work and over at one another’s place.” 
       “Did she hang around anyone else here at the IRS?” 
       “No one but me.” 
       “How about anyone who didn’t work here?” 
       “Not that I’m aware of.” 
       “Are you sure, Cindy?” 
       “Positive, lieutenant.” 
       “Did she ever mention other people outside of here? People who might’ve been close or distant associates?” 
       “No one.” 
       “Her killer might’ve been someone she knew very well.” 
       “But Lisa never seriously dated any one guy?” 
       “But she did date guys to your knowledge?” 
       “If she did, you’d look up to the sky and see the bluest moon ever.” 
       “Do you remember any of those guy’s names?” 
       “No, because these were men from many years ago.” 
       “She wasn’t the dating type?” 
       “Only when she felt the guy’d be worth her time. Are you saying it could’ve been an old boyfriend who killed her?” 
       “It’s possible.” 
       “What left all of us here at the IRS in absolute disarray, was the fact he chopped her up and then dumped her into Brush Creek.” 
       “Her killer might be someone we’ve been trying to apprehend for a long time.” 
       Cindy shed light tears for her close friend. “Detective, why would anyone want to hurt the sweetest woman in the world? Lisa never hurt nobody and would do anything to help someone. Only a psychotic animal would’ve done something as horrible to her as that sonofabitch.” 
       “Trust me, we’re working around-the-clock to bring this psychotic animal to justice.” 
       “Well, it’s not happening soon enough,” Cindy spoke from raw anger. 
       A woman from the cleanup crew named Jackie Bartlett walked over to Cindy’s enclosed office to make yet another formal complaint. She jerked open the door and stuck her head inside. “Excuse me, Cindy, but you need to tell your female employees to stop being so dam trifling!” 
       “What now, Jackie!” Cindy grumbled, but in a respectful way. 
       “Somebody brought crabs to work with them today,” Jackie fired off. 
       “Was it someone here in data conversion?” 
       “Women in data conversion use those bathrooms more than anyone else.” 
       “You’ll have to take that up with the building administrator.” 
       “No, these women around here need lessons in hygiene and cleanliness,” Jackie blatantly reminded Cindy. Overstreet sat sideways with his head tilted awkward. “Between smearing feces on the floor and walls, wiping boogers on the wash counter and toilet stall doors, leaving bloody napkins in the sink, and bringing crabs here to start new families, I’ve had enough of their trifling, inconsiderate, obnoxious, and nasty asses! A lot of these women around here are nothing but walking health hazards.” 
       Cindy, being the patient and good-natured woman she was, stepped to the door and tried calming Jackie down. “Jackie, I’m going to have the branch secretary type up a memo warning every woman employed with the IRS, that if they are caught doing any of those things you mentioned, they’ll be reprimanded and possibly terminated.” 
       “Cindy, most of them act like they don’t have any home training. I’d like to go to their houses and see how clean it is.” 
       “Yes, I couldn’t agree more. But if you’ll excuse me, I have some unfinished business with this gentleman.” 
       Jackie closed the door with gentle aggression. Overstreet already knew how some women weren’t afraid to speak their minds. Call it rude, call it disrespectful, but Jackie felt the need to rush into Cindy’s office and blow off steam about the unsanitary women who were deficient in the area of courtesy towards others. 
       “Well!” Overstreet seethed, humping his shoulders. “Talk about telling like it is, she sure blew their cover. Don’t wanna get off the subject, but are the women that unsanitary around here?” 
       “Actually, detective, it’s a lot worse,” Cindy disclosed. “The other day the cleaning crew found a pair of women’s underwear in the stool stuffed with poop.” 
       “With the women here at the IRS being so unclean, I guess they make the men look as clean as the board of health.” 
       “Almost, but not quite true. The cleaning crew have told me stories about men who’ve gone in the bathroom and masturbated, leaving their semen all around the stool and floor.” 
       “Why can’t they watch porno movies at home and masturbate there?” 
       “You would think that’s exactly what they would do.” 
       Overstreet cleared his voice. “Now, getting back to Lisa. Do you know of any other employees here at the IRS she might’ve gotten into a discrepancy or an altercation with?” 
       “Not a soul in this building, lieutenant.” 
       “Not one person in the twenty-eight years she worked here?” 
       “If there were, she never said a word to me or anyone else in management.” 
       “Did you ever see her frightened or worried about anything? Like someone threatening her?” 
       “Never.” 
       “That’s unusual.” 
       “Lisa planned on retiring within the next two years. She wanted to get her thirty year certificate and just end her career here at the IRS. For her, the hours of everyday, and the days of every week, most definitely counted.” 
       “Retiring after thirty years of service would’ve been nice.” 
       “Laying back with fun in the sun.” 
       “When she stopped showing up for work, did other employees, including yourself, become suspicious?” 
       “Very suspicious,” Cindy rushed to answer. “We called her house everyday, several times a day. We even went by her house several times to check on her. When there were no signs of her, we notified the police.” 
       “Yes, I remember the missing persons bulletin coming through headquarters.” 
       “Lieutenant, do you guys suspect foul play?” 
       “It’s a strong possibility.” 
       “Nowhere you go nowadays is safe anymore.” 
       “Correct, Cindy,” Overstreet asserted. “Let me ask you this. Does the IRS have security cameras surrounding this entire complex?” 
       “I believe they do. You can check with security down in the tunnel to make sure. Those guys should be able to show you the areas that their cameras cover.” 
       Overstreet arose from his seat in bold fashion. “Cindy, I can’t thank you enough for all the information you’ve given to me. I’ll be in touch to let you and others here at the IRS know about any progress we’ve made.” 
       Cindy extended her hand to Overstreet. “Do you know enough at this point to find Lisa’s killer?” 
       “No, we don’t.” 
       “Keep us updated, lieutenant.” 
       “Will do.” 
       Overstreet found himself back in the tunnel section of the IRS complex. A group of security guards briefed him on how their security system worked. Logs were kept of the coming and going of visitors to the center. A long line of new hires stood along the wall, waiting to sign paperwork and take pictures for their badges. A series of eyes belonging to sex-starved lonely women moved over to Overstreet. He kept his focus since the investigation of a mutilated woman hung in the balances. 
       Overstreet explored the more clever part of his detective’s mind. “Could you guys possibly get me a tape of the front of this IRS building, either the day before Lisa Wallace came up missing, or the day after she came up missing?” 
       “Shouldn’t be a problem, lieutenant,” the guard spoke confidently. 
       “When can you get the tape to me?” 
       “A couple’a days, the longest.” 
       “Appreciate it much.” 
       “You’re welcome.” 
       Overstreet returned the badge and exited the huge IRS complex. A large part of solving the murder of Lisa Wallace depended on the shrew detective work of the KCPD. 
  CHAPTER—12 
       The sun might’ve glowed its brightest above clear Kansas City skies, but darkness lingered in the lives of Lisa Wallace’s family. KCPD homicide detective Carey “Corky” Schroeder paid a visit to the elite Whispering Meadows apartment complex in the Gladstone section of North Kansas City. After two knocks on the manager’s door, the strangest looking man peeked between the cracks.  
       “What can I do for you?” asked the man with comical looks. 
       Carey flashed his detective’s badge. “I’m homicide detective Carey Schroeder with the KCPD.” 
       “Detective? What’s going on?” 
       “May I come in?” 
       “Sure, come on in.” 
       Carey was offered a seat on the other side of his desk.  
       He held in his laugh after studying the weird looking man. Standing barely five foot tall, he had a full head of fire red hair and a matching fire red beard without a trace of hair on his upper lip. A set of long pointed ears were pushed to the back of his head. Directors could’ve easily casted him as a leprechaun in a Hollywood movie. 
       “By the way, I’m David McNally,” he said to Carey. “I’m the manager here at Whispering Meadows.” 
       Carey grasped his hand followed by a cordial smile. “Pleased to meet you, David. I take it you’re Irish?” 
       “Can’t you tell?” David jarred. “I’m short, redheaded, got pointed ears, and my upper lip is like a baby’s bottom.” 
       Carey thought the exact same thing. David could’ve been shipped straight from Ireland in time for a lucky leprechaun festival. 
       “David, I’d like to ask you some questions about Lisa Wallace.” 
       “Everybody here at Whispering Meadows heard about what happened to Lisa. Sometimes, I just don’t know what this world’s coming to.” 
       “An end from what most of us suspect. What can you tell me about Lisa? What kind of tenant was she? Did you ever meet any of her friends?” 
       David leaned back in his office recliner. “Lisa lived here for about ten years. She always paid her rent on time and never caused any trouble. Everytime I saw her, she always had a smile on her face, always a kind word to speak. As far as her friends were concerned, I noticed she always had a lot of her females friends from work over.” 
       “Women from the IRS?” 
       How did Carey know that? 
       “You’re right, detective. In fact, there’d be times when she introduced me to some of these ladies from the IRS and what their job titles were.” 
       “Did you ever see any men come to her apartment?” 
       “Never in the ten years she lived here.” 
       “Are you sure?” 
       “More than positive.” 
       “So, you never saw any men come to her apartment? You never saw any men dropping her off or walking through the parking lot with her?” 
       “Let’s just put it this way, detective. Men might’ve come to her apartment, whether it was early in the morning or real late at night, but me personally, I’ve never seen a man come to or leave from her apartment. To be honest with you, I’ve never seen Lisa with a man, here on the apartment premises or anywhere away from the premises.” 
       “You’re not insinuating she was a lesbian are you?” 
       David gestured with a defensive hand signal. “No, no, I’m not insinuating that at all. Even if she was, that was her business. As the oldtimers used to say, I don’t have five cents in that quarter.” 
       “And there were never any complaints coming from her or from neighbors?” 
       “Never.” 
       “Was Lisa close to any of the other tenants here at Whispering Meadows?” 
       “She and the woman next to her often visited one another.” 
       “What’s this woman name?” 
       “Geena Bruce.” 
       “What apartment does Geena live in?” 
       “Four-fourteen.” 
       “Think she’s home now?” 
       “She should be. Whoever did what they did to Lisa, I hope they burn in hell forever. You know, I pick up the paper and it’s talking about a woman found in Brush Creek, all chopped up and thrown in trashbags. With all these psychos on the loose nowadays, you really can’t trust nobody anymore.” 
       “I agree,” Carey nodded. “The world’s not a safe place to live anymore. People are sicker than ever. There’s no more respect for human life, no more standards of morality.” 
       “We’re planning a prayer vigil for Lisa here at Whispering Meadows.” 
       “That’s very thoughtful of you guys.” 
       Carey exited David’s office. He walked up three flight of stairs before he found apartment 414. He knocked three times.  
       The raspy voice of a woman asked, “What do you want?” 
       Carey flashed his badge up to the peephole. “Mam, I’m homicide detective Carey Schroeder with the KCPD.” 
       “What can I help you with?” 
       “I’d like to ask you some questions about Lisa Wallace?” 
       “Lisa?” 
       “Yes, about Lisa. Could you open the door, please?” 
       She slid the chain off the latch and turned the deadbolt lock with caution. 
       “Are you Geena Bruce?” Carey inquired, his revolver sticking out. 
       “Yes, I’m Geena Bruce.” 
       “May I come in, Miss Bruce?” 
       “Sure, come inside. Can I offer you something?” 
       “What do you have?” 
       “Coffee, tea, soda, juice, or water.” 
       “A glass of water is fine.” 
       “I’ll be right back.” 
       Geena handed Carey a frosty glass of icewater. He took a couple of sips and dug deep into his thoughts. “How well did you know Lisa?” 
       “I knew her very well. She and I were neighbors for about five years.” 
       “How long have you lived here at Whispering Meadows?” 
       “July of this year made five years.” 
       “Let me ask the same question I asked the manager of this apartment complex. Did you ever see men come or go from Lisa’s apartment?” 
       “Not in the five years I lived here.” 
       “Are you sure?” 
       “I’m certain.” 
       “Did you guys often visit one another?” 
       “Yes we did. We had keys to one another’s apartments.” 
       “So you trusted each other?” 
       “Practically with our lives.” 
       “Tell me about the women who came to visit her.” 
       “Most of them were women she worked with at the IRS. These women were respectful and they looked after Lisa like she was their sister. When she came up missing, they came by her place everyday, sometimes several times a day.” 
       “Did Lisa ever talk about men? Did she ever talk about going out with a guy?” 
       “Uhhhhh, I’m not sure, detective.” 
       “What does uhhhhh mean?” 
       “Well------.” 
       “Think, Geena, think. We want to find her killer and make him pay for what he did to her. We’re talking about a psychotic animal who might kill and mutilate other women.” 
       Geena snapped her fingers. “Lisa never talked about no certain guy in particular.” 
       A jolt of excitement ran through Carey. “Did she ever mention any names?” 
       “No. Sorry I can’t help you with more details.” 
       “Lisa could’ve been the naïve type.” 
       “Being too nice can be fatal.” 
       “Dam!” Carey grumbled. “Now there’s a lot of pieces to the puzzle we can’t find.” 
       “What clues do you guys have after you found her body?” 
       “The pollutants in the creek water washed away the DNA evidence.” 
       “Detective, I’m sorry.” 
       “Oh, it’s not your fault.” 
       “If there’s anything else I can do to help, please let me know.” 
       “You’ve been a great big help.” 
       Carey felt like a castaway stranded on a deserted island. Reporting back to his superiors emptyhanded at the homicide unit was something he felt bad about. He left the apartment of Geena Bruce with more ideas crammed inside his head. 
  CHAPTER—13 
       A wicked drug like crack cocaine carved out a path of its own. The white rock devil made The Rosenburg Apartments no exception. A notorious crack addict who went by the street name of D-Money resided covertly among others at The Rosenburg. People in the building knew him by Darryl. Street punks and drug dealers knew him by D-Money. Secretive residents like Charlie cared not to know him at all. He never spoke to him in passing or just taking out the trash.  
       Derrick and Mitchell were in the kitchen of their apartment preparing food for a big Sunday dinner. Charlie happened to be inside his apartment reading an old article about the grizzly murder of Lisa Wallace. The exact murder he’d committed he relished with commendation. A crashing knock sounded at his door. Who was bold enough to knock so aggressively? Were the law coming to arrest him for his debut murder? The knocks came non-stop. They got bolder. 
       “Alright, I’m coming!” Charlie yelled to make the stranger ease up. 
       He only hoped and prayed the interracial homosexuals weren’t coming to bother him about a bunch of nonsense. Charlie looked into the peephole. Two thuggish looking street punks stood in the hallway with their baseball caps cocked backwards. Their pants sagged far off their behinds. No way was Charlie going to open the door. Taking both of them out would’ve been no problem. 
       “What can I do for you?” Charlie wailed, keeping his keen eye on the thugs through the peephole. 
       One of the rogues nearly pressed his face to the door. “We’re here to see D-Money.” 
       “D-Money doesn’t live here.” 
       “He gave us this apartment number.” 
       “Somebody’s given you the wrong apartment number. There’s nobody who lives here by that name.” 
       The street punk molded his body further against the door. “D-money said he lives here, and this is where we were told to come.” 
       “For the last time, nobody lives here by that name.” 
       Boldly, the out-of-control roughneck rattled the doorknob to the apartment. Charlie rushed into the kitchen and jerked a large butcherknife out of the silverware drawer. In heated rage, he went inside the closet and brought out the monster machete he used to mutilate Lisa Wallace with. He looked through the peephole. Both brave punks pushed against the door like they wanted to bust through.  
       Charlie slid both chains off the latch and opened the door with authority. “Now, what the fuck do you two sonofabitches want!”  
       The knife and machete were raised high as though he prepared for fresh combat left over from Vietnam. 
       The pair of young thugs displayed strong demeanors of fright.  
       The tallest of the them stepped around his partner and said, “Look man, D-Money told us that he stayed in this apartment. We didn’t mean to disturb you or anything like that.” 
       “When I told you that this D-Money character didn’t live here, you should’ve got the fuck away from in front of my door. I’ll take this knife and machete and chop you up into so many pieces, until the maggots wouldn’t have enough to feast on. Anyway, what does this D-Money motherfucker look like?” 
       The other thug spoke up. “He’s a tall and skinny black dude with a lot of hair grease in his head.” 
       “So, he’s the black guy with the oily face who’s always twisting his mouth like he’s got some type of nervous condition.” 
       The wannabe drug kingpins turned to lock eyes. In a perfect unison, both replied by saying, “Yeah, yeah, that’s him.” 
       “Does he owe you money?” 
       “Yeah, he owes us money for some work.” 
       “Work?” 
       “You know, the smoke.” 
       “Dope, huh?”  
       Charlie held on to his weapons like the two rogues were Vietnamese enemy personnel. 
       “Something like that.” 
       “Both of you guys are stupid. This D-Money has pawned me off on you guys.” 
       “He told us that you would pay us for the work.” 
       “I’m not paying for no one else’s drug debts.” 
       “Why not?” 
       Charlie hissed out pure hostility. “You young punks aren’t getting one red cent out of me. I don’t do dope. I don’t understand why you’re here at The Rosenburg trying to set up your goddamned infant drug cartel.” 
       “Hey man, don’t talk to us like that. We’ll both kill your white ass and nobody will ever hear from you again.” 
       Charlie slipped into a flashback daze. This episode took him right back into his days of serving in the hot and hostile jungles of Saigon in Vietnam. The irritability and outburst of anger and hypervigilance took him over. He emptied round after round into several Vietnamese soldiers. He watched them drop like flies, some still breathing after being filled with hot lead. Quickly, he jumped back into the present.  
       “You motherfuckers, war has no beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie thundered, the monster side of him having surfaced. 
        He swung the butcherknife and machete at the drug pushing thugs. They rushed to the middle of the stairs. Fright shot into them like doses of penicillin. It was frightening enough for them to look into his pitted face and at his rotted dental work.  
       “Man, that dude is one of them crazy war soldiers,” the taller thug warned his counterpart. 
       “We better get away from him before he chops us up.” 
       “It’s not worth all that.” 
       “No, it ain’t.” 
       Charlie slammed his door loud enough to shake up Derrick and Mitchell down on the first floor. Derrick opened his door with baking flour all around his arms and hands.  
       Their Sunday dinner was almost complete. The wandering rogues came downstairs perpetrating their own brand of innocence.  
       “Who’s up there slamming doors like that?” Mitchell asked one of the thugs. 
       “It was that white dude with the crater face and the yuck mouth.” 
       Mitchell nodded his head. “You’re talking about Charlie.” 
       “Do you know D-Money?” the rogue questioned Derrick, more than determined to find the addict who owed he and his partner money. 
       “Hmmmmm,” Derrick brainstormed. “Oily face guy with slicked back hair who’s always twisting his mouth back and forth all the time?” 
       “Yes sir, that’s him.” 
       “He’s up on the third floor in Apartment 320.” 
       “Thank you, sir.” 
       “And who are you?” 
       “Don’t worry about it.” 
       “Do you belong here at The Rosenburg?” 
       They ignored Derrick to begin their journey up to the third floor. A boisterous knock rattled the door of Darrell “D-Money” Parker. No one answered. The knocks grew more commanding. D-Money crept to the door and peeped out the hole. The collectors for his drug debts had arrived. The time to pay the piper snuck up on him. A series of savage kicks followed by more knocks weakened the door’s structure. D-Money had nowhere to run. Scenarios of violence entered his deranged head. What the hell was he going to do? Where in the hell was he going to run? 
       “Hey D-Money, I know you’re in there,” spoke one of the vicious rogues, still kicking on the apartment’s door. 
       D-Money knew enough force would eventually bring the door down. He pushed his bed and dresser against the door. Chairs and miscellaneous objects were also used to barricade the door against the savages who wanted every cent of their drug profits.     
       “D-Money, we gave you some dope on credit. We want our money, and we want it now.” 
       “We’re gonna knock this door down and bust come caps in your ass!” 
       “And we ain’t bullshitting, D-Money.” 
       “Open the door or you’re gonna be one dead nigga.” 
       From the other side of the door, D-Money knew they meant business. Pay up or lose your life. The force of their strong legs shattered the deadbolt lock and busted both chains off the door. D-Money now had to make a choice of either life or death. He dashed over by the window and looked out. What sounded like pistols being cocked frightened him into sudden oblivion. It’d come down to two choices. Stay in the apartment and get some hot slugs pumped into his frail, crack-addicted body. Jump out the third story window and possibly suffer a broken bone or two. 
       Charlie and others raced out of their apartments to catch a glimpse of the action. The door to D-Money’s apartment had been kicked all the way in. Blocking the way of both thugs were the king-sized bed and the dresser, along with the chairs and other items. D-Money had already pushed the window open and half his body was suspended over the ledge. With several hard pushes, the drug bastards made their way into his apartment. D-Money had to make the most crucial decision of his life. His very life hung in the immediate balance. 
       Instead of taking bullets into his skinny frame, he jumped out the window. The impact after hitting the hard concrete made sounds audible enough to be heard around The Rosenburg complex. The Tibalis Anterior bones of both his legs burst through and broke the skin. Muscle tendons ripped apart and caused him excruciating pain.  
       Blood splattered all over the back parking lot concrete. D-Money rocked back and forth from excruciating pain. Tears of agony clouded his eyes. Residents from The Rosenburg gathered in the back of the building to spectate the young drug addict who was sprawled across the ground in unspeakable pain. A series of police sirens echoed throughout the neighborhood. Charlie stepped up to the injured D-Money with red eyes of vehemence. No sympathy whatsoever touched his black heart. 
       “You pawned those two dope punks off on me, didn’t you?” Charlie confrontationally barked at D-Money 
       D-Money couldn’t respond since he was in so much agony. 
       “You told them that I’d pay them for the drug debts you owed. How dare you, you crack smoking nigger. How dare you pawn of a couple of other niggers off on me. How dare you put my life in jeopardy for some bullshit mess you’ve created. I should reach down and break all the rest of the bones in your body.” 
       Still, D-Money couldn’t respond. The pain left him speechless. The shame left his emotions crippled. 
       “Every since you’ve been here at The Rosenburg, you’ve hustled people for money. You’ve lied and told people that you needed money to buy medicine for your diabetes. You’re not a diabetic and you’ve never been one. Everything that comes out of your face is a lie. Those two drug peddling punks were packing pistols. That’s quite okay, because I would’ve taken those pistols from them and buried them up their asses. When I did time in Nam, I ate young faggots like them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” 
       D-Money heard every word Charlie spoke, though he couldn’t speak himself. 
       The price some had to pay for being addicted to drugs.  
       “What happened to you tonight, you deserved every bit of it. I hope that you’ll never be able to walk again. I hope they confine you to one of them homes for faggots who can’t walk.” 
       Police and the ambulance arrived at the scene.  
       Questions about what happened to D-Money came from every direction. Some of The Rosenburg residents actually felt sorry for him, even though they knew he smoked crack and hustled nice people for money. Derrick and Mitchell were always the nosiest ones out of the group. They wanted to know who did what and what for. Inquiring minds just had to know. 
       “My Lord, what happened to D-Money?” Derrick asked Mrs. Hazel Robinson, a sixty-six year old widow who lived across the hall. 
       Hazel contemplated before giving an answer. “Heard someone here in the building mention that he’d been getting dope on credit. People do talk around here. They said he jumped from the third floor to keep from being shot by a couple’a drug dealers.” 
       “Funny how things happen so fast. Two young guys wearing street gear had asked me if I’d seen D-Money. Mrs. Robinson, did he ever ask you for money to pay for his diabetic medication?” 
       “Almost everytime I saw him. I knew he’d been trying to scam me.” 
       “Like myself, you can tell when someone’s stressing to get their next hit. One time, I asked him how much his diabetic medication cost, and he told me that a prescription for fifty pills costed thirty dollars. I figured that if he’d hit everybody up here at The Rosenburg, he’d hustle up enough money to buy his drugs for a week.” 
       “A quiet fella to say the least.” 
       “Quiet until he started hustling people for money.” 
       Charlie stood to the side to scope their conversation. Every word spoken about D-Money was true. Paramedics strapped him to the gurney and lifted him into the ambulance. Gauze was wrapped around both legs to slow up the bleeding. An episode of drug dealers versus drug addicts ended on a semi-tragic note. 
  CHAPTER—14 
       Ideas of satanic proportions stirred up Charlie to the point of wanting to go out and create more havoc. His debut murder of Lisa Wallace presented further challenges. Thirsting to create another murder ate away at him like lions tearing into the fat abdomen of a buffalo. The constant mentioning of drugs introduced him with the possibilities of committing another killing. A section of town which came to mind happened to be Independence Avenue. The haven for prostitutes and drug addicts created the ideal roadmap in his mind.  
       Charlie got inside his car and before long he found himself cruising the busy avenue. Drug addicts were easy to lure to one’s car. Like a child molesting pervert able to lure children to their wicked domain with gifts, Charlie lured hookers to his car with the flashing of either drugs or money. Caution became a privilege of the weary. Undercover lady cops were often posted up on Independence Avenue after the ladies of the night turned up dead in alleys and behind abandoned buildings. 
       Charlie wasn’t nobody’s fool. If the women looked far too good, if they looked way too clean, they had to be undercover cops. Not to say that hookers and drug addicts weren’t clean or good looking, but only the smart tricks knew to be careful. Charlie spotted a few African American women walking the avenue. They strutted their stuff like they didn’t have a care in the world. Only problem, Charlie wasn’t interested in black women. The caucasian persuasion suited him just fine.  
       He dared not choose black women as his homicide victims. Black men were left to do such dirty deeds. Many in the black community agreed how no one had killed more black people than black people themselves. They were the biggest murderers of themselves. Charlie recognized how the hookers along the avenue didn’t have an IQ above sub-below zero freezing weather. They were the easiest targets in the world. But where were the white women? 
       Independence Avenue was usually flooded with white hookers and addicts. White women of every shape, size, and shade frequented the avenue on a regular basis. Charlie rolled further down the street to not look so suspicious. Last thing he needed was to arouse the suspicion of cops. A flashing blue and pink silhouette neon sign pinched a quick nerve with him. He wanted to kill some time. He waited for the group of hookers he truly desired to emerge from their domains.   
       Charlie parked his car into a lot occupied with Mercedes-Benzs, BMWs, Lexus’, Hummers, and SUVs. The fancy cars were dressed up with sparkling gold rims and tinted windows. The clientele inside the strip club were obvious. He went inside and a sea of thundercats from the urban core were spread out over the club. The world became a different place. Charlie remembered the hippy days of long hair, psychedelic drugs, wild partying, and anti-government protests.  
       For him, the sixties were the best time to be alive. The strip club rocked with hardcore gangster rap and hip hop. A stable of black strippers with enough hips and ass to shove a hippo aside paraded around the club. A far cry from an upscale gentlemen’s club, the strippers executed every hustle known to man. Charlie paid his five dollar cover charge and faded into the crowded club. Fitting in with the other patrons, he just couldn’t do it. The urban strip club just wasn’t his element. He wanted to kill off at least an hour. Charlie looked like an easy target.  
       The most attractive stripper in the club approached him. “Haven’t seen you here at the club before.” 
        The pleasingly curvy dancer had hopeless bedroom eyes with mouth-watering mocha skin. 
       Charlie sort of blushed. “Uhhhhh, I don’t get to this part of town often.” 
       “Where’s your part of town?” the stripper asked, quietly scanning his face and mouth. 
       “South.” 
       “What brings you to Pink Passion?” 
       “I’m a guy who likes variety.” 
       “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little cream in your coffee.” 
       A woman of her calibre said such things to get inside a guy’s wallet. 
       “You’re right.” 
       The stripper got right down to business. “Would you like a lap dance?” 
       “Lap dance?” 
       “Sure, let me work this butt and tits all over you.” 
       Charlie gave it some thought. He had nothing between his legs to get aroused.  
       “How about it?” 
       “Well-------.” 
       “C’mon.” 
       “Alright.” 
       The super-built stripper positioned Charlie to where he enjoyed his lap dance. She spread his legs and slumped him down on the padded sofa. A hit rap record pumped through the concert speakers. She started the erotic dance. She tightened her firm buttocks and gyrated them all over his mid-section. Her breasts bounced on top of his head. Nibbling on Charlie’s ear aroused him. She closed her eyes to keep from looking at his face and inside his mouth.  
       The eye-pleasing dancer wanted to satisfy Charlie in every way. He hadn’t achieved an erection like she wanted. She questioned herself since all of her customers got concrete hard erections from her lap dances. She slid down to his mid-section and grabbed between his legs. Acting on raging impulses, Charlie clamped his hands around her wrists. He squeezed tight enough to break her wrist bones.  
       “Don’t ever fucking do that again!” Charlie snapped, dark red spread out over his pitted face. 
       The stripper jumped back with astonished eyes. “Mister, I didn’t mean any harm.” 
       “Next time, don’t go between my legs without my permission.” 
       “Don’t you have any privates down there?” 
       Charlie clenched his teeth. A ferocious growl steamed from his mouth. “How dare you ask me if I’ve got a dick and pair of balls down between my legs. It’s none of your fucking-goddamned business if anything’s in between my legs!” 
       “When I felt down there, I felt nothing but flatness. Did something happen to you?” 
       “You’ve got your money for the lap dances. Now, get the fuck out’a my face!” 
       “But I do that to all my customers.” 
       Charlie dashed out of the club bumping one patron after another.  
       The group of young black men followed him out of the club. Using expert timing, he ran to his car. He cranked it up in record time and sped off up the street. Rocks and beer bottles were thrown at him. Things along Independence Avenue were heated up. New hookers showed up and were looking for some action. Charlie looked to the left and spotted a woman more suited to his taste. He slowed down and the cute redhead with a conservatively shaped figure sprinted across the street. She stood at his car while he checked out the goods.  
       “Looking for a date tonight?” she asked Charlie, her eyes glossy with dollar signs. 
       “Kinda, sorta,” Charlie smiled, looking her up and down. 
       “Want some company tonight?” 
       “Why not? Life sure can be lonely at times.” 
       “Where you coming from?” 
       “From the strip joint down the street.” 
       “White guys rarely go into that tittie bar. Black guys and Mexicans frequent that club.” 
       “The niggers tried busting out my windows with rocks and bottles.” 
       “You need to stay away from down there.” 
       “What’s your name?” 
       “My name’s Kim. What’s your name?” 
       “Charlie.” 
       “Please to meet you, Charlie.” 
       “Hey, let’s get off Independence Avenue before the cops bust us. Speaking of cops, you aren’t one them, are you?” 
       “Not at all.” 
       “Hop in.” 
       Kim got inside the car with Charlie and he sped off up the street. The action on Independence Avenue only got hotter. One less woman hooked on drugs disappeared from the avenue. 
  CHAPTER—15 
       Charlie and Kim stepped into his apartment and a series of lights flashed on. Kim had a rather dysfunctional history. The deep lines across her face and bags under her eyes told most of her story. The life she’d led for the past twenty years painted an ugly picture. Being raped by her natural father and two uncles tore deep into her self-esteem. Having a mother who put her out on the streets at the age of fourteen didn’t help matters. She opted to the streets and the harsh elements who ruled them became her family. Pimps became the father figure she never had. 
       Polluting her body with drugs and hard liquor temporarily buried her memories. Selling her body to strange men gave her a sense of need. She longed to be wanted or belong to something. Avoiding a regular job helped her escape a system she believed would’ve never wanted her in the first place. The world she existed in only got colder. Other hookers were the sisters she yearned for. The man she followed home had dangerous plans for her. 
       “How long have you lived on The Plaza?” Kim asked Charlie, firing up a cigarette. 
       “Long enough,” Charlie said, rumbling through his closet for some goods. 
       Kim scanned the walls and noticed the many posters of Brush Creek. “Where’d you get all these pictures of Brush Creek at?” 
       “Collected them over the years.” 
       “My brothers and I used to play down there when we were kids.” 
       “Is that right?” 
       “Yeah.” 
       “Brush Creek is the most exciting place, the greatest marvel on this Earth.” 
       “Looks like you’re fascinated with Brush Creek.” 
       “Brush Creek is an engineering extravaganza.” 
       Kim traveled to the wall facing south to look at two posters which had aerial views of the floodwaters during the tragic 1977 flood in Kansas City. “I remember the flood back in Seventy-Seven. I must’ve been a little girl when it happened.” 
       Charlie stepped up beside Kim. “The swollen Blue River overflowed its banks, which sent water into a lot filled with assembled cars at the General Motors plant out at Leeds. Those waters flooded the Leeds residential area and trailer courts north of I-70.” 
       Kim pointed to the other poster. “This poster here, what’s it showing?” 
       “This shows the Brush Creek bulge,” Charlie noted. “Excess water from the heavy rains in Brush Creek was unable to flow into the Blue River. The creek bulged before the confluence of the two.” 
       “Looks like it made a mess.” 
       “Homes and businesses along Brush Creek suffered heavy flood damage.” 
       “A lot of stores on The Country Club Plaza lost serious money.” 
       “The flood damaged a lot of merchandise in those upscale stores.” 
       “Well, those rich folks never hurt for anything.” 
       “The Plaza got back up and running in a few days.” 
       “Body-after-body was found floating up from the Brush Creek waters.” 
       “Missing persons reports popped up all over the place.” 
       “From what I’ve heard, about twenty-five people drowned in that 1977 Brush Creek flood.” 
       “Sounds about right to me.” 
       “You know everything about Brush Creek.” 
       “The excitement just keeps on growing.” 
       Kim fired up another cigarette. She fell down onto the sofa. “So honey, what’cha looking to do tonight?” 
       “As far as?” 
       “As far as something freaky, something sexual.” 
       “Freaky and sexual, huh?” 
       “Sure, like something real nasty.” 
       “Come again, please.” 
       “You wanna fuck?” Kim blurted out. “You want some head? You want some ass? Isn’t that why you picked me up?” 
       “Having your over for company, that’s why I picked you up.” 
       “Are you paying me for my time?” 
       “You could say that.” 
       “Time is money, darling.” 
       “That’s what they say.” 
       Kim motioned to Charlie with her index finger. “So, why don’t you come over here and sit with me on the sofa.” 
       Charlie did as she suggested. She looked hard at the deep pits that covered his entire face. The crooked, the rotted teeth, it churned her stomach without him having any idea. The lights went down low. The full bright moon casted a soothing glow into the apartment.  
       “Alright, tell me some things about yourself,” Kim requested. 
       “What would you like to know?” 
       “Have you ever been married?” 
       “Never.” 
       “Any children?” 
       “Zero children.” 
       “No wife? No kids? Why not?” 
       “Being single with no kids is the best thing that ever happened to me.” 
       “Don’t you get lonely?” 
       “Sometimes.” 
       “Growing up, how was it for you?” 
       “As a young boy, I spent hours of everyday hanging down in Brush Creek. I found my peace of mind just wandering beside the creek waters. After high school, I went to the service to serve in Vietnam.” 
       “You were in Vietnam?” 
       “Did two tour of duties.” 
       “That war lasted way too long.” 
       “Me and the casualties in my company thought we’d never make it back to the states.” 
       “Did you come out of that war okay?” 
       “What do you mean by okay?” 
       “Killing innocent babies, killing innocent women, and killing other innocent people, didn’t that screw your mind up a little?” 
       “Psychologically, we all became damaged.” 
       “Diseases, did you catch any when you were over there?” 
       “I was one of the lucky ones. 
       “You didn’t catch gonorrhea or that Agent Orange crap?” 
       “Nope.” 
       “Did you ever get shot?” 
       Kim asked the biggest setup questions. Charlie thought back to when a barrage of powerful ammunition shot off his private parts. 
       “Did you?” 
       “What?” 
       “Ever get shot?” 
       “Sorta.” 
       “You’re still alive. It couldn’t’ve been that bad.” 
       “Definitely one of the lucky ones.” 
       Kim fired up her third cigarette. She wanted her money but knew she had to put more work in. More money awaited her along Independence Avenue. She scooted closer to Charlie and cuddled up with him. He didn’t want to have sex with her. Too bad he couldn’t get intimate since he was minus the tools. She glided her hands along the base of his neck. Clever hookers like herself had the capacity to make any man feel special.  
        Pitted skin and rotted teeth didn’t stand in the way of Kim making a few bucks. Charlie got caught up in the moment. The atmosphere escalated to erotic heights. Kim sailed both hands down between his parted legs. Complete flatness was all she felt. She drew back and got overpowered by an airy strangeness. Weird was how she felt.  
       “Did you have an accident down there?” Kim asked, her eyes planted down by Charlie’s mid-section. 
       Charlie stared with eyes of vehemence. “Wait just a second, bitch! How dare you ask me a fucking personal question like that!” 
       “Charlie, I didn’t mean any harm,” Kim appealed. “Do you have any privates down there?” 
       “Private parts or personal parts, it’s none of your goddamned business!” 
       “If we got in the mood, how were we gonna have sex?” 
       “Are you making fun of me?” 
       “Never.” 
       “Is it a joke to you that I don’t have a dick and a pair of balls hanging between my legs?” 
       “I’d never make jokes about something like that.” 
       “You women, you’re all disgusting.” 
       By now, Kim had pissed Charlie off. His blood rose to the boiling point. She cut a smirk which he’d noticed much too well. 
       “Are you laughing at me?” 
       “Why’d you say that?” 
       “I saw you grinning.” 
       Kim couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst into a rumbling giggle.  
       The time bomb inside of Charlie was set off. The unexpected rage took him back to the exact period when the Vietnamese whores accosted him outside a hotel. The Asian prostitutes laughed at him for not having sexual organs. Indelibly, it was etched into his memory. The pain was buried deep into his tortured soul. Charlie came back into the present. Kim stood at the middle of the floor giggling under her breath. He’d had enough of her disrespect.  
       “It’s funny, huh?” Charlie ruttled, his face blanketed with rage. 
       “Look, can you take me back to where you picked me up?” 
       “Where, Independence Avenue?” 
       “Yes, back on the avenue.” 
       Charlie got up in her face. “My dear, you’re not going nowhere.” 
       “Like hell I’m not!” 
       “You came here on my terms, and you’ll leave on my terms.” 
       “What’re your terms?” 
       “You’re not going to like them.” 
       Kim noticed him shaking. She witnessed the sweating, the cold and clammy hands, the dizziness and fatigue, the racing heart and dry mouth. Charlie transformed into a monster before her very eyes. She raced for the door. Charlie intercepted any moves before she’d executed them. The laughing of two Vietnamese hookers rung into his ears. Sounds of ammunition taunted him. Demonic forces took over his mind. Kim was more frightened than she’d ever been.  
       Charlie clamped both of his powerful hands around her frail neck. He choked her with all his might. Her kicking and swinging were useless. Strength from unbelievable sources gained control of his body. She gasped for air, but all supply of oxygen was cut off. A sheet of purplish blood covered her whole face.  
       Gradually, she slumped to the ground. Her eyes bulged far out from the sockets. The death of a wandering hooker from Independence Avenue was over in less than six minutes. Charlie stared down at Kim like a worthless piece of garbage. As far as he was concerned, she deserved it. To say the least, he instigated the murder. The fun hadn’t even begun. He slung open the closet door and produced his favorite weapon of choice. The brightness of the full moon launched a sparkle to the blade of the Full Tang Monster Machete. The edges were scrupulously sharp. Charlie was ready to rip through some human flesh. 
       He dragged Kim’s body to the middle of the floor. To drown out noticeable sounds, he turned the television and stereo up to camouflaging levels. Her clothing was removed. The mutilating expedition began. Unlike his first victim, he sliced into areas near the limbs and torso. Blood squirted in every direction. The machete ripped through the tender flesh and bones of Kim like wet tissue. Charlie worked up a tiresome sweat. He was proud of his sophomore killing. Kim’s mutilated body parts were scattered all over the floor.  
       Charlie went into the kitchen and brought out two large trashbags. Piece by piece, the body parts were stuffed inside. Heavy blood dripped from the torso while thick puddles formed across the floor. Rotted blood carried odors which sent vultures flying the other direction. Charlie went under the kitchen sink to bring out his cleaning supplies. Ammonia and Lysol and Pinesol were spread evenly across the floor. Scalding hot water and a mop made the bloody mess disappear. Sneaking the bags out of his apartment and into his car was the next challenge.  
       He jumped at the sound of a vicious knock to his front door. “Who’s there?” 
       “It’s Derrick and Mitchell from downstairs,” Derrick replied, his voice at its angriest. 
       “What this time?” 
       “The loud stereo and television playing.” 
       “Guys, you have to forgive me. My hearing’s going bad.” 
       “Do know about a hearing aid?” 
       “You’re right.” 
       “What’s with all the pounding noises?” 
       “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 
       “Charlie, it sounded like you’re up here chopping something up.” 
       “Nobody’s chopping anything up,” Charlie lied, his own fear being produced. 
       “Are you in there doing something you’ve got no business?” 
       Charlie felt victimized. Gay men were the most bothersome people in the world. To him, they were nosier than women. “Everything that goes on inside my apartment is legit.” 
       “Could you open the door, Charlie?” 
       “Right now I’m busy.” 
       “Next time, Mitchell and I are going to show up at your door with the police. Now, I’ve warned you before about disturbing people here at The Rosenburg. People do have to get up and go to work in the morning.” 
       “Sorry guys, it won’t happen again.” 
       Derrick and Mitchell went back downstairs to their apartment. Peace and quiet were the only things they desired. Besides enjoying one another, they looked after other residents at The Rosenburg. Good cooking and steamy homosexual activities were their favorite pasttimes.   Charlie played it smart. He waited at least two hours before transporting the trashbags out of his apartment. He cracked his door and peeped out. A level of quietness faltered throughout the first and second floors. He looked out the windows and the streets were clear. The bags were snatched off the floor and the journey to his car began.  
       Coming to the bottom of the stairs, Charlie unexpectedly met up with Mrs. Hazel Robinson. She was old, but still as sharp as the wisest serpent. Mrs. Robinson possessed a meticulous inner sense which told her when something suspicious went on.  
       “Taking your trash out, Charlie?” she asked Charlie, her voice layered with doubt. 
       Charlie only hoped she wouldn’t notice any odors coming from the trashbags. “Yes, taking it out for the trashmen to collect.” 
       “This late at night?” 
       “Like they say, better late than never,” Charlie smiled, his nerves shot. 
       “But the trashmen don’t come until next week.” 
       Old women were pesty to him. They were lonely and disenchanted. Between Derrick and Mitchell or Hazel Robinson, who was worse? Charlie saw them as the greater or lesser of the nerve-wrecking parasites.  
       “Mrs. Robinson, sometimes the bags fill up with trash, and the smell stinks up my apartment. The only way to keep my apartment fresh is to take the trash out early.” 
       “Know what you should do?” 
       “And what’s that?” 
       “Spray air freshener, burn candles, and light incense.” 
       “Sounds good, but I’d rather do it my.” 
       “If you insist.” 
       Mrs. Robinson stepped back into her apartment and locked the door. Charlie wasted no time racing for his car.  
  CHAPTER—16 
       A single bright star dominated the clear nighttime skies above Kansas City, Missouri. The time was 2:33 a.m. A glowing full moon poured an alluring burst of light down onto Brush Creek. While being new at his title of “serial killer”, Charlie operated in a covert and systematic manner. He dumped the mutilated body of Lisa Wallace close to The Country Club Plaza. Dropping another body near the same area would’ve been juxtaposed. Charlie parked his car near the intersection of Cleveland Avenue and Blue Parkway. He looked around and then popped the trunk to his car.  
       The bags came out of his trunk. He scanned nearby neighborhoods to make sure none of the residents were on their porches or looked out their windows. Rabbits, squirrels, possums, birds, and even geese and hawks, they traveled to and from their inner sanctums in Brush Creek. The creek waters were calm. A mild breeze of ten miles per hour blew from the north. The usual noises of traffic from out on Brush Creek Boulevard had long ceased.  
       All pedestrians were gone. Charlie carried the bags to the concrete walkway of the creek. A perversed, yet feeling of monstrosity, overtook him. The bloodthirsty maniac stood at the banks of the water holding the bags to the sky. The untamed beast started his ritual. A rage detonated deep inside of him.  
       “War has no fucking beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie yelled, his voice not heard by nearby residents.  
       Sweat dampened the skin around his face and neck. Rabbits and squirrels jumped from trees and out of their holes after he made his cry. 
       “Brush Creek!” Charlie squalled, trembles rocking his body. “I make this sacrifice to you. I make no amends that you are the greatest marvel ever known to man. Brush Creek, I live you, I breathe you, I think you, I eat you, I sleep you, I dream you, I work you, and I will certainly die for you. Please accept my sacrifice. Please take this whore that I have mutilated and accept her as my sacrifice.” 
       Charlie looked out at the rippling waters. His reflection casted a picture he wasn’t pleased with. Emotional scars stabbed deep into his heart. Large sewer rats from tunnels on the other side of the creek showed up for their early morning hunting. Fish were tucked under the creek bed. The rats sifted through the brush of the woods. Charlie threw the bags into the water and watched them float downstream. The crack of daylight hadn’t come. A steady stream of cars drove up and down Brush Creek Boulevard. Street lights lit up the surrounding wooded area. Charlie had accomplished what he’d set out to do. Another mutilated body stuffed in trashbags floated unnoticed through the waters of Brush Creek.        
  CHAPTER—17 
       Workers with the Department of Parks and Recreation were assigned to clean up trash around the more littered parts of Brush Creek. Near the intersection of Brush Creek Boulevard and Blue Parkway, maintenance crews policed the area for cans, bottles, fast food sacks, old car tires, and garbage bags. People were just too lazy to set their trash out for city workers. Maintenance crew supervisor Michael Scott worked alongside his employees to help rid Brush Creek of trash and excess tree brush. 
       Michael noticed two trashbags floating at the middle of the creek waters. A stomach-twisting stench came from the bags. Insects crawled from out of tiny holes. Something rattled rather wildly from inside. Michael had a feeling, and the feeling wasn’t good. Using a long tree branch, he poked at the bags until they floated to the banks. The stench became more irritable. The rattling of the creature inside intensified. Parks and Recreation workers stopped their duties to see what their boss had discovered. 
       “These lazy ass people who live close to Brush Creek,” Michael complained, using the tree branch as a protective tool. “They’ve worked my last good nerve. I’ll bet there’s a bunch of rotted food inside these bags. Anybody wants to make a ten dollar bet? Bets are open, guys.” 
       “What’s that rattling noise?” asked Johnny Davis, one of Michael’s veteran workers. 
       “Probably a possum.” 
       “Or some creature that lives here in Brush Creek.” 
       Michael ripped the bags open. The ghastly sight inside made him and his group of workers jump back and cup their mouths. The stench rushed up their noses, nearly giving them migraine headaches. Between both trashbags, five large sewer rats jumped out, then diving under the murky creek waters. They’d been feasting on the decaying mutilated body parts. Thousands of voracious maggots did some feasting of their own.  
       “Jeeeeeeesh!” Michael shrieked, one hand covering his nose, the other hand covering his mouth. “That’s a cut up body inside both of these bags.” 
       “Nothing’s hardly left of that body,” Johnny added, wanting to throw up. 
       “The rats and the maggots left little meat and lots of bones.” 
       “Think we should call the police?” 
       “Who else?” 
       “Yuck!” 
       “There’re some sickos on the loose out here.” 
       “That’s to say the least.” 
       “Didn’t they find a body up by The Plaza?” 
       “About a couple’a months ago.” 
       “Think it’s the same maniac who killed the other woman?” 
       “Since I’m a betting man, I’d bet everything I’ve got it was.” 
       “We better call the police.” 
       “Good idea.” 
       A brief call to the KCPD stirred up enough action to bring police officers and homicide detectives to the horrible crime scene. Crime scene tape covered areas from Brush Creek Boulevard to Swope Parkway and over to Blue Parkway. Motorists and residents stood over on Brush Creek Boulevard with quizzical expressions on their faces. What happened down by the creek banks? They just had to know.  
       Veteran homicide detective Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet hadn’t solved the murder of Lisa Wallace. Being called back to Brush Creek for yet another gruesome murder investigation flipped his brains upside down. The true genius himself, Dr. Anthony McKinnis, along with members of his forensic staff, showed up at the crime scene and were ready to go to work. 
       Overstreet looked at Dr. McKinnis with a cordial frown. “Doc, I know it’s too early to tell, but what’re we possibly looking at?” 
       “This vic’s in much worse shape than the woman found a couple’a months ago here in Brush Creek,” Dr. McKinnis explained in partial details. “Looks like our perp went a lot more mutilation crazy. We’re going to have our work cut out for us this time.” 
       “Also, it looks like the critters around Brush Creek got their chance to really snack.” 
       “The bite marks on the arm are those of sewer rats.” 
       “There’s enough of them around Brush Creek.” 
       “I’d say the decomposition process started over a week ago.” 
       “Like the first vic found up by The Plaza, positive identification won’t be easy.” 
       “Give me a couple’a days, detective. I should have something for you by then.” 
       “You always do good work, doc. I’ll check back with you before the week’s up.” 
       Overstreet was the best at digging deep into the souls of witnesses. He approached Michael with a thin pad and a pen. 
       He turned loose his best questioning tactics. “So, you’re Michael Scott?” 
       “Yes, that’s me,” Michael said, the stench still irritating his senses. 
       “About what time did you discover the body in the trashbags?” 
       “A little over an hour ago.” 
       “How’d you come up on it?” 
       “The smell, that rotten smell, it hit me in the face like a two-by-four board. Myself and my workers thought we’d come upon some raw sewage.” 
       “Working for the Parks and Recreation Department down here in Brush Creek, I’m sure you always come upon raw sewage.” 
       “We sure do.” 
       “Any suspicious looking people around when you pulled the trashbags out of the water?” 
       “Nobody but me and my workers were around. We’re supposed to be cleaning up this area from all the trash and excess brush.” 
       “How long have you worked for the Parks and Recreation Department?” 
       “Twenty-Five years.” 
       “You ever made a gruesome discovery like this before?” 
       “Never in my forty-nine years on this Earth.” 
       “Thanks for what you’ve told me so far.” 
       Michael placed a sympathetic grasp on Overstreet’s arm. “Detective, my heart goes out to this person’s family. I’m sorry about what happened to them.” 
       “Their family will be even sorrier.” 
       The man Overstreet considered his alter ego, homicide detective Carey “Corky” Schroeder, drove to the crime scene in his unmarked detective’s car. Dr. McKinnis and the forensic team collected all the DNA samples and returned to their offices to start their work. The mutilated body was hauled inside the van and driven off.  
       Carey approached Overstreet as his mind wandered from the cosmos. “Jerry, I came as soon as I got the message. What do we have here?” 
       Overstreet returned a depressed look. “Looks like our psychotic monster found somebody else to put on the chopping block.” 
       “What happened?” 
       “Some Parks and Recreation workers found a body inside some trashbags floating in the creek waters.” 
       “Like the dismembered vic found up by The Plaza?” 
       “Yes.” 
       “Doc McKinnis say how long it’d been decomposing?” 
       “Probably a little over a week.” 
       “I’d say our perp is operating systematically and covertly.” 
       “You’re right, Cork,” Overstreet muffled. “Dropping the body off in the same spot wouldn’t’ve been smart on his behalf.” 
       “Question stands, is he done playing the butcher man?” 
       “Let’s hope we find out before another body turns up in Brush Creek. This time, the sewer rats cashed in and got a piece of the action.” 
       “So this vic’s in worse shape than the first one?” 
       Overstreet tapped into his memory bank. “I’ll tell ya Cork, Doc McKinnis is convinced that the first vic was dismembered with a Full Tang Monster Machete. He made that determination by closely studying the actual ridges of the blade that sliced into her skin and bones when he went he chopped her up. The vic found by the maintenance workers got it worse than our first vic.” 
       “Jerry, you think the department should put Brush Creek under surveillance for awhile?” 
       “Surveillance doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Let’s hope the chief will go for it.” 
       “We better move fast before this guy strikes again.” 
       “He’s still out there, and I’ll bet he lives close to this area.” 
       “My guess is a two mile radius, give or take.” 
       “Cork, talk to some of the locals around here. See what you can find while the department tries to make a positive identification on the vic.” 
       “Sounds good, Jerry. I’ll let ya know what I find out.” 
       A hungry news corps trampled towards Overstreet with their cameras and microphones. Veteran reporter and anchorwoman  
       Stephanie Powers pushed her microphone forward into the face of Overstreet. “Detective Overstreet, can you tell us who, what, or why a badly dismembered body was dumped here in Brush Creek?” 
       “I can’t tell you who, what, or why so far,” Overstreet rationalized. “We haven’t got a single clue at this point.” 
       “But this isn’t your typical homicide.” 
       “No, it isn’t.” 
       “Detective Overstreet, this is the second dismembered body found in two months in Brush Creek. Are there possible connections between both victims?” 
       “Very strong connections,” Overstreet deliberated. “Right now, we have a crime scene with a dismembered body and absolutely no evidence. We’re trying to make a judgement between what happened. We’re trying to assemble a Christmas toy without directions.” 
       “So, trying to find any answers will be tough?” 
       “Real tough.” 
       “Your future plans?” 
       “The KCPD will be forming a special squad to investigate these two homicides. Myself and six other detectives have been working ten to twelve hour days, even seven days a week.” 
       “We do realize these cases can be difficult. Is there any type of motivation, rationale, or reward this person has for killing?” 
       “I don’t like getting caught up in ‘what ifing’. There can be several complexities involved as to what his true motives or rewards are for killing his victims.” 
       “Detective Overstreet, thanks for that information.” 
       “You’re welcome.” 
      Overstreet and other KCPD personnel closed up the crime scene. Many other questions remained without answers. 
  CHAPTER—18 
       Lieutenant Overstreet spent the middle of his career chasing behind KC mobsters and bank robbers and serial rapists. Rarely was he assigned to cases which involved psychotic serial killers. The Galluccio Mafia family stirred up enough bullshit starting from the late sixties up into the early eighties. Angelo Galluccio constantly left a scent for Overstreet and other detectives to pick up on. With organized crime pushed aside on his agenda, Overstreet faced the greatest challenge of his career. 
       Two days following the discovery of the second mutilation victim in the sewage infested waters of Brush Creek, Overstreet turned once again to Dr. Anthony McKinnis for more answers. Dr. McKinnis had completed his autopsy on the latest Brush Creek victim. He made some rather complex discoveries. The cutting, sawing, lifting, dissecting, weighing, examining and turning over of the body was done. Dr. McKinnis stood on his feet for fourteen hours during the last two days. 
       He was tired but didn’t mind working hard for a detective who dedicated just as many hours to his profession as he did.  
       Overstreet walked into the autopsy room with uncertainty on his face. “How’s it going, doc?”  
       “Fine detective. And yourself?” Dr. McKinnis smiled with great sincerety. 
       “Great, doc, just great. What’cha have so far?” 
       “It sure isn’t pretty, detective.” 
       Dr. McKinnis felt comfortable in his well-worn scrubs. He slipped into his disposable plastic apron and teased out a pair of thin latex gloves. Overstreet placed a mask over his face. A thick layer of wintergreen oil was spread inside the mask to camouflage the odor. The smell of death and composition simmered into the air after Dr. McKinnis pulled back the white sheet from the torso and badly-dismembered limbs. Overstreet couldn’t help but produce a frown. 
       Dr. McKinnis pulled the bright overhead lamp closer to the neck of the wounded torso. “We both know that the first vic suffered the same fate as this vic, but looks like this one got a little worse treatment. The bluish-gray discoloration around the neck indicates that she also suffered cyanosis. Unusually strong hands choked the very life out of her. The veins along her neck were squeezed extremely tight which blocked arterial flow. The ruptured spinal cord and dislocated vertebrae shows that whoever choked her had her in a hold tighter than any vice grip.” 
       Dr. McKinnis showed Overstreet X-rays of the spinal cord and vertebrae. He used a bright pen light to point out lacerations through the skin and straight to the bone. Autopsies were never a favorite of Overstreet. 
       “Any signs of rape, doc?” Overstreet questioned, yearning for concrete answers. 
       “This vic showed no signs of being raped. I swabbed the vaginal and rectal areas and found no signs of forced entry or seminal or saliva or blood DNA.” 
       “Any signs of a struggle?” 
       Dr. McKinnis guided the pen light to the middle of the victim’s right arm. “Bruises up here and right along here shows they might’ve put up a struggle, maybe tried to fight off her killer.” 
       “Any DNA, whatsoever, found on the vic?” 
       “None, whatsoever, detective. I checked under the fingernails, through the hair, into the mouth, and all along the limbs and the torso. We’ve come up real short this time. Besides, the strong sewage water in Brush Creek would’ve also contaminated any valuable evidence.” 
       “Dammit!” Overstreet blabbed. “Just like the first vic we found, any evidence left behind got washed away.” 
       “This person was also a heavy drug user.” 
       “You found traces of drugs in her system?” 
       “Large concentrations of cocaine found in the blood.” 
       “If she was a heavy drug user, then she was probably tied to prostitution.” 
       “Not an intravenous drug user, but probably a cocaine smoker.” 
       “Probably a longtime user.” 
       Dr. McKinnis wanted Overstreet to focus his attention on the deep wounds inflicted through the limbs. “Detective, remember we discussed how the first vic found in Brush Creek might’ve been mutilated with a Full Tang Monster Machete?” 
       “Remember it very well, doc.” 
       “Well, this vic was dismembered with the same type of machete.” 
       “How do you know that for sure?” 
       “Blades belonging to knives, razors, saws, and any other sharp objects only have so much sharpness to penetrate the epidermis of the skin and go straight into the bones of the arms and legs and other body parts. The steel blade of a Full Tang Monster Machete stretches nineteen and a half inches long with a fourteen inch cutting edge. I examined the cuts with precision and matched them straight to the machete.” 
       “Doc, how can you be so sure?” 
       Dr. McKinnis reached for a book on machetes. He turned to the page which showcased the various models. “Over and over, I studied how a forcible contact with such a powerful blade could rip through the skin and bone with slight effort. Had the perp used just a butcherknife, straight razor, handsaw, or other sharp object, excessive damage would’ve been done to the skin and bones.” 
       “How about a chainsaw?” 
       “Impossible.” 
       “Why?” 
       “The teeth of a chainsaw would’ve ripped the skin and bones into a million big pieces.” 
       “We’ve had this discussion before, doc,” Overstreet recalled. “I’d never question your expertise as a medical examiner, but it seems like our perp knows how to unassemble a body.” 
       “To say the least,” Dr. McKinnis agreed. “Through reading or experience, they know the points to dismember the limbs from the torso.” 
       “Now we’re dealing with round two.” 
       “The conclusion is rather clear, detective. The cause of death is asphyxia by compression of the neck. The manner of this death is homicide.” 
       “Now we’ve got to make a positive identification on the vic.” 
       “I’ll make X-rays of the dental work and get it over to the forensic orthodontist. From there, he can examine the jaws and study the teeth and dental work.” 
       “Let’s hope that that won’t take too long.” 
       “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Since facial reconstruction won’t be needed, the dental records alone should help determine who our vic is.” 
       “Doc, you’re the best. Let me get back over to headquarters to find out who this person is.” 
       Overstreet dashed out of the autopsy room. Lots of questions with no constructive answers hung over his head. 
  CHAPTER—19 
       Three days following the initial autopsy performed by Dr. Anthony McKinnis inside the Harry S. Truman Medical Center, Carey Schroeder helped piece together a positive identification of the second victim found in the sewage waters of Brush Creek. He had information which Overstreet found joy to his ears. 
       “Found out our vic is Kimberly Deanna Barr,” Carey disclosed to his superior. He read straight from an open folder. “Had numerous records for prostitution, with five convictions from 1999 to 2002. Mainly worked Independence Avenue and areas closeby.” 
       Overstreet leaned back to absorb most of what he’d just heard. “Think about it, Cork. How many cars do prostitutes get in and out of on a regular basis down there on Independence Avenue?” 
       “Independence Avenue’s got more than it’s share of crazies.” 
       If one went looking for fun, they’d find it down on the avenue. 
       “These women typically lead nomadic, unscheduled lives. This Kimberly Barr, did she check in regularly with her friends and relatives?” 
       “Who’s to say that she had any friends, the ones who took time to care. Who’s to say that she had relatives who gave a dam. She also had prior drug convictions.” 
       “She didn’t get into the car with the wrong psycho, she got into the car with the right psycho,” Overstreet sadly spoke. “The trail we’re picking up on, this sonofabitch will eventually turn into months old work.” 
       Overstreet figured how Independence Avenue just wasn’t safe after the Italians deserted the north end of Kansas City for greener pastures. Angelo Galluccio and his soldiers migrated further north to enjoy some peace and quiet. How clever of them to evade the law. 
       “Jerry, we’ve got a demonic creature on our hands.” 
       “With two grizzly murders under his belt, we can only guess how this scumbag feels.” 
       “Unstoppable.” 
       “And uncatchable and invincible.” 
       “Jerry, this bastard chopped these women up like beef in a slaughterhouse.” 
      “Something like that is grotesquely abnormal.” 
       “This bloodthirsty madman, this nameless beast, he’s got to be stopped.” 
       Overstreet tapped into his quintessential detective gifts. “There’s a strange irony between the first vic and the second vic. The first woman, Lisa Wallace, she lived alone, worked at the IRS for twenty-eight years, didn’t bother a soul on Earth, and was an outstanding pillar of her community. Unlike Lisa, this Kimberly Barr worked as a prostitute, was a regular drug user, was homeless most of her life, and wandered the streets of Independence Avenue in search of tricks. These are two different women from two totally different backgrounds.” 
       “The paradox here is insanely unconventional.” 
       “Sounds like our perp knows how to change his mode of operation.” 
       “He must know that patterns and repetitions tip off cops.” 
       “Let’s hope our investigation will steer up in the direction of the killer.” 
       “Think this lowlife hacks and kills at the spur-of-the moment?” 
       “There’s got to be an underlying psychological reason as to how and why he kills,” Overstreet reasoned. He glanced at the police mugshot of the former prostitute and drug addict known only to street elements as Kim. “He’s got to be an intensely angry man. Choking these women to death and hacking up their bodies is how he vents his anger.” 
       “Maybe this jerk feels deserted in some way.” 
       “He’s real skilled at dismembering bodies.” 
       “Makes transporting the bodies a lot easier. Also, it’s his way of making a statement.” 
        Overstreet theorized how their perp mastered the skill of mutilation. “Doc McKinnis explained to me how the cuts on both vics were precise. He raised the possibility that the killer could’ve been in the medical field or had some type of surgical knowledge. The doc also pointed out that the chops were done with a Full Tang Monster Machete.” 
       “How can Doc McKinnis be so sure?” 
       “My question, exactly. Doc McKinnis is quite a bit more knowledgeable than your average medical examiner. Under a light brighter than the sun itself, right there inside the autopsy room, he showed me how only that model of machete ripped into both vic’s skin and bones. Know what I believe beyond any reasonable doubt, Cork?” 
       “Jerry, my ears belong to you.” 
       “Our perp is some shellshocked war veteran who’s out to get revenge on American people.” 
       “Could be possible.” 
       “Particularly women.” 
       “Still, how many more people gotta die before we find this sicko?” 
       “None of us knows that. Brush Creek will be under tight surveillance.” 
       “So, what’s our next move?” 
       Overstreet didn’t need pen and paper to strategize. His brains were all he needed to map out his plans. “Make a trip down there on Independence Avenue. Talk to some of the locals in that area and see what you find out. It’s gotta be some streetwalkers down there who knew Kim.” 
       “How about that skin club on the avenue? The one right there close to Van Brunt?” 
       “Uhhhhhh,” Overstreet scrambled, being cautionary. “You’re speaking of the black strip club towards the end of the avenue. Cork, I’m telling your right now, please be careful. Fighting and shooting and stabbing is the norm inside that joint. It’s nothing but a deathtrap for those young black kids. You can go inside there and question a few people, but you might need some backup.” 
       “Jerry, that’s why I carry a .357 glock and mase. I’m trained to ward off the people who are allergic to law enforcement.” 
       “See what you can find.” 
       “Will do.” 
       Carey snatched up the folder off the desk of Overstreet. He was headed straight for the wild streets of Independence Avenue. 
  CHAPTER—20 
       A half-bright sun shielded by a cluster of powdery gray clouds created dull skies above the busy streets of Independence Avenue. Once controlled by the bold nature of the Italian and Sicilian immigrants, the four mile east-west stretch of the legendary Kansas City avenue bolstered new sets of players. Mexican immigrants occupied most of the businesses and residential homes and apartments. The Mexicans didn’t mind the ghetto blacks and poor white trash making jokes about them being nothing but illegal spics and greaseballs.  
       The same ones who insulted them paid for products in their stores and handed over rent to live in their homes and apartments. Time ticked its way towards six o’clock p.m. Carey Schroeder cruised towards the east end of Independence Avenue. He parked in a lot closest to a taco and burrito stand. Mexican vendors threw all kinds of hints for Carey to come over and try their mouthwatering dishes. The smell of grilled chicken, beef, pork, onions, peppers, and garlic teased Carey’s tastebuds. 
       Business was business and he had some business to take care of inside of The Black Diamond strip club. He pulled the door open and was met by a short, stocky-built man with the shiniest bald head with two matching gold loop earrings. The doorman wore black chaps and a matching black leather vest. 
       “What can I do for you?” he asked Carey, a Marlboro Gold cigarette dangling at the edge of his mouth. 
       Carey whipped out his badge and flashed it before the doorman. “I’m homicide detective Carey Schroeder with the Kansas City, Missouri Police Department. I need to ask some questions about a murder victim who worked Independence Avenue.” 
       “What murder victim?” 
       “Kimberly Deanna Barr.” 
       “I knew Kim.” 
       Carey pointed to the other side of the skin club. Young black men were shooting pool and dropping dollar bills on the stage. “Can we go over there to talk?” 
       “No problem.” 
       Carey and the doorman weaved through the crowd of young blacks who puffed on their blunt cigars and slammed down mixed cocktails. 
       “Now, what can you tell me about Kim?” Carey asked, pulling out a pad and a pen. 
       “Kim worked the avenue for a long time,” the doorman explained. “She’d come down here to The Black Diamond from time-to-time and hustle people for money.” 
       “I assume to buy drugs or maybe get something eat.” 
       “I’d say so.” 
       Carey practically saw his reflection on top of the doorman’s head. 
       “And when she’d come down here to the strip club, that’s all she would do, just ask people for money?” 
       “To be truthful with you, detective,” the doorman paused, taking strong puffs from his cigarette. “She’d take guys in the back of the building and she’d blow them straight to the moon. I’d see guys coming from the side of the building with Kim zipping up their pants.” 
       “Did you ever see Kim jumping in and out of cars along Independence Avenue?” 
       “Only a thousand cars over the years.” 
       “Did any of them appear strange or stand out from all the others?” 
       “No, they were just tricks looking to get blowed or get screwed for the night.” 
       “Would you say that she had any regulars?” 
       “Plenty of regulars.” 
       “You do know that Kim’s body was found badly mutilated in Brush Creek.” 
       “Read about it in the paper.” 
       “Around the time frame she’d been found in Brush Creek, had you seen her get into a car with a real weirdo?” 
       “No, I didn’t.” 
       “Would you promise on the soul of your mother, or swear to it on a stack of Bibles?” 
       “I’d be willing to bet my very life on it.” 
       “That’s convincing enough for me.” 
       “Look detective, there’re a lot of women who work the avenue. There’re a lot of tricks who cruise the avenue. The cops do their part to make sure the hookers and tricks don’t stir up a lot of bullshit up and down the avenue. The women know that they’re playing Russian Roulette with their lives everytime they jump into a car with some guy they know nothing about.” 
       Carey stared once again at the very top of the doorman’s shiny bald head. “I’d have to agree with you a hundred percent.” 
       “These psychos prey on women like Kim. These animals know how vulnerable they are, them having dope problems and all.” 
       “Are there any of your dancers who might’ve known Kim?” 
       The doorman pointed to a dancer who commanded the stage. “Chocolate sort of knew Kim. She should be coming off stage after this song.” 
       “I’d like to ask her a few questions about Kim.” 
       He respectfully clenched Carey’s arm. “Hey detective, I’d only ask that you don’t harass any of our employees.” 
       “Look sir, a woman was murdered and her body mutilated. This sonofabitch is still on the loose, and he’s probably working on his next victim. I need to find out as much as I can to help further our investigation.” 
       The doorman succumbed to Carey’s requests. “Alright, but don’t scare Chocolate off. She’s our biggest moneymaker here at The Black Diamond.” 
       “I promise that I won’t be too brush.” 
       The hit rap record which blasted through the concert speakers dissolved. The super-curvy and beautiful black dancer known as “Chocolate” swept up her many dollar bills before leaving the stage. Big beads of sweat rolled off her smooth and delectable chocolate skin.  
        Carey approached her with his badge camouflaged by both hands. “How are you doing this evening?”  
       “I’m fine. And yourself?” Chocolate replied, her enticing stripper outfit hung over her arm. 
       “Doing just great.” 
       “You want a lapdance or something?” 
       “Actually, I’m homicide detective Carey Schroeder with the Kansas City, Missouri Police Department. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Kimberly Deanna Barr.” 
       “White girl Kim?” Chocolate categorized, followed by a familiar frown. “What’d you like to know about Kim?” 
       “A few questions.” 
       “I heard about what happened to her.” 
       “So, you heard about the Parks and Recreation workers finding her mutilated body in Brush Creek?” 
       “Yes, I found that real fucked up. Look, can I go back into the dressing room and put back on my outfit and put my money away?” 
       “Sure, I’ll be out here waiting for you.” 
       While he waited for Chocolate, Carey scanned the tittie bar and saw a sea of drug dealers, hustlers, gangbangers, and street walkers. A chance bust would’ve done enough to fill up half the county jail. The Black Diamond wasn’t the typical gentleman’s club where the respectable rich gentlemen came to play. Chocolate emerged from the dressing room decked out in her sky blue and lime green stripper’s outfit. The fluorescent colors put a mild strain on Carey’s eyes. 
       “Now, where were we?” Chocolate asked Carey, fishing out a Newport cigarette. 
       “You were supposed to tell me what you knew about Kim,” Carey reminded the stripper. 
       “Yeah, that’s right, detective. Exactly what would you like to know?” 
       “First, did you know Kim personally?” 
       “Sort’a.” 
       “What does sort’a mean?” Carey asked with skepticism. 
       “It means both yes and no. Yes, I knew Kim in passing. But I didn’t know her on a more personal level.” 
       “How much did you know about her in passing?” 
       “Well,” Chocolate hesitated, taking long drags off her cigarette. “Kim strolled up and down the avenue morning, noon, and night. It’s like she never got any sleep. She’d come down here to The Black Diamond asking me and other people for money. I’d give her a couple’a dollars out of the tip money I’d make, but she made money by taking dudes in the back of the building and giving them oral sex.” 
       “Yes, the doorman already told me. Did any of the guys she tricked with stand out or look different from all the rest?” 
       “A trick is a trick to me. Look at all these dudes in here tricking away their rent money and house mortgages and car notes. Kim gotta hold to the wrong trick.” 
       “Did you ever get a good look at the guys she’d take to the back of the building?” 
       “Detective, there were far too many to remember. She’d go back there with black dudes, white dudes, Mexican dudes, and whoever spent money to get blowed. She did oral so much until she’d get those nasty looking red sores around her mouth.” 
       “The doorman told me that she got into a lot of cars at the other end of Independence Avenue.” 
       “She sure did,” Chocolate affirmed. “Coming to and leaving from The Black Diamond, I’d see her jumping into and out of one car after another. How she did it, I’ll never know.” 
       “Again, did any of those guys stand out?” 
       “Far too many of them to remember.” 
       “You’ve got a good point.” 
       Chocolate snapped her finger while discharging a long drag of smoke. “You know what, detective? Some real weird man came in here one night, one of those men who looked like he’d kill his own mother and father for fun.” 
       “How’d you describe this guy?” 
       “Had lots of crater holes in his face. Had teeth rotted straight to the gums. He was medium height and weight and kinda had a big bulge on the side of his stomach.” 
       “The kind you wouldn’t wanna run into in a dark alley at three in the morning.” 
       “That’s right.” 
       “You ever seen him here in the club or along Independence Avenue?” 
       “Never,” Chocolate rejected. “I gave him a lapdance and noticed that he didn’t have any private parts between his legs.” 
       “Private parts?” 
       “Yeah, he didn’t have those babymaking tools down there.” 
       “Wow, I’d hate to be him.” 
       “So many weirdos come into The Black Diamond, until you start losing count.” 
       “Kim’s killer is still out there,” Carey stressed. “We believe her murder is connected with the murder of another woman whose mutilated body was also found in Brush Creek.” 
       Chocolate mashed out her cigarette. She shot Carey a disappointingly boisterous stare. “Detective, can I ask you a serious question?” 
       “Go right ahead.” 
       “Are the police department investigating the Gillham Park murders?” 
       “Yes we are?” 
       “A twenty-one year old black woman was found strangled to death with a bunch of mud and tree barks shoved down her throat. She’s the eighth black woman they’ve found dead somewhere in Gillham Park.” 
       “Yes, everybody’s aware of that.” 
       “Answer this for me, detective. Why haven’t the police department found the fucker who’ve been killing these black women?” 
       “Let me answer by saying this. We’ve had little to no success getting people to talk. We’ve questioned prostitutes and drug users we’ve apprehended on the streets or in drug raids. We’re not getting much help and have beat the street morning, noon, and night.” 
       “Truthfully, detective, do black people even count? Do our lives mean anything to you white people?” 
       Chocolate’s true emotional side surfaced. She cared deeply about her people and her voice was tainted with worry. 
       “To the law enforcement community, everybody’s life counts. Mam, we’re swamped with one murder case after another. Homicides pour into the department like water falling over Niagara Falls. I’ve been assigned to the Kimberly Deanna Barr homicide case, and I’m only doing what I’ve been told to do. As far as the Gillham Park killings, the department’s doing all they can to solve those murders.” 
       “More black women are turning up dead on these Kansas City streets. Personally, I think it’s an attack on the dignity of black women.” 
       Carey wanted to talk about the murder of Kimberly Barr.  
       Chocolate vented her emotions otherwise. Leaving the strip club during the early morning hours, she felt she’d become a homicide victim herself. 
       “Just like Kim, the lifestyles of these women put them in the line of danger. If we can locate witnesses who are willing to talk, then we can start making progress.” 
       “Let’s just hope you all don’t find another woman naked and beaten to death.” 
       Carey listened closely to an angry stripper who narrowed her views down to certain demographics. He exited the strip club since he had more people to interview out on Independence Avenue. 
  CHAPTER—21 
       A canine and two human beings were added to the murderous archive of Charles Rastelli. The lives he’d taken during the Vietnam War were far too many to keep count. Foreign murders now transformed into domestic murders. Friday nights at The Rosenburg Apartments were relatively quiet, except for other tenants playing loud music and getting into heated arguments. Just down the hall on the second floor a soon-to-be married couple named Richard and Jan engaged into a shouting match. 
       Their voices carried throughout the second floor and into Charlie’s apartment. Whatever they argued about, Charlie stepped out of his apartment and into the hallway. The offensively racist word “nigger” resonated from the apartment of Richard and Jan. It carried up and down the hallway. Charlie served a tour of duty with plenty of black soldiers. He actually befriended many of them during trying times of combat. From inside his apartment, Richard shouted the word “nigger” one right after another. 
       Having authentic Italian ancestry, Charlie barely related since he’d learned about his ancestors being called “wops” and “dagos” and “spaghetti-slurping guineas”. Charlie placed his face up to his neighbor’s door. He tuned in tightly and allowed his mind to go inside their apartment.  
       Richard lashed out at Jan in the most barbaric manner. “Why can’t you just admit that you’re a nigger lover!”  
       “I’m not a nigger lover, Richard,” Jan sympathetically responded, her short and skinny body shaking from mild fright. “I just don’t like it when you use that word. It’s offensive to me and it was not allowed to be used in our house when I was growing up.” 
       “Do you know why I use the word ‘nigger’?” 
       “Why, Richard?” 
       “For this very reason, Jan. I’m sick and tired of these black guys asking me for money every fucking corner I turn! Why can’t they go out and get a fucking job? Why can’t they go out to one of these day labor places and make some money?” 
       “Just because I don’t like you using that word, it doesn’t mean that I’m a nigger lover.” 
       “Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!” Richard yelled three excruciating times, his face having turned beet red. “You’re a nigger lover and you’re in denial. You wanna know something else, Jan?” 
       “I’m listening, Richard,” Jan said in a tone of exhaustion. 
       “White guys can’t even get a job because they have to hire so many minorities. I pay taxes and can’t even go to apply for benefits. My ancestors were Irish and they built the fucking railroads in this country. These niggers are taking over America and it’s not right.” 
       “I disagree.” 
       “This is the white man’s country and niggers don’t have no right running this country.” 
       “America should be ran by whoever’s qualified.”      
       “These greedy capitalistic pigs have been running this country since the beginning.” 
       “And what race are they?” Jan asked with the straightest face. 
       “Do you want to hear me say it?” 
       “Say what?” 
       “As a white man myself, fuck the fucking white man!” 
       Charlie knew he had gay neighbors down on the first floor. Now, he learned he had racist neighbors right there on the second floor. Richard shouted the word “nigger” enough times to put the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan to shame. The furious debate between Richard and Jan ceased.  
       The voices of feminine men down on the first floor wavered up to the second floor. Charlie heard a large group of men laughing from what appeared to be coming from the apartment of Derrick and Mitchell. He followed the noise straight to their door. A few thunderous knocks got their attention. The door eased open as the volume to the music lowered.  A small army of gay men stared at Charlie with eyes of disparage. 
       “Yes, Charlie, what can I do for you?” Derrick asked Charlie, his gayish, intoxicated voice rather slurred. 
       Charlie stared inside the smoke-filled apartment. “Could you guys please lower the noise a bit?” 
       His request would set off the timebomb inside of Derrick. “What! You’re telling us to lower the noise? Charlie, you don’t have room to talk, buddy. Not after all the bamming, the kicking, the slamming, the rumbling, and all the jumping that you do upstairs.” 
       “Didn’t know you’d go and get so hot under the collar.” 
       “How dare you come down here confronting us about the noise. Mitchell and I have tolerated your bullshit upstairs for far too long. Mechanics taking apart a semi truck have made less noise than you.” 
       Charlie should’ve known you didn’t go around confronting an intoxicated gay man. A stable of thirty other gay men took sides with Derrick. 
       “Did you know that we have racist neighbors here at The Rosenburg?” Charlie disclosed, quickly changing the topic about the loud noise. 
       “Racist neighbors?” Derrick wondered. “Who’re these people?” 
       “Up there on the second floor.” 
       “The white boy and the white girl down the hall from you?” 
       “Yes, the guy named Richard and the girl named Jan.” 
       “Let them be racist if they want to. The day they call me a ‘nigger’ to my face, that will be the day they lay down their own lives.” 
       “You should’ve heard that guy Richard going apeshit. He used the N-word a hundred times in less than ten minutes.” 
       Derrick pulled Mitchell closer to him. “Look Charlie, Mitchell is a white man, and he’s the love of my life. We don’t have no time for racist pigs who don’t like us because of our skin color. We’re in love and that’s the way it’s gonna be.” 
       Derrick and Mitchell turned to face one another. The gay lovers pressed lips and kissed to seal their love. Charlie found it absolutely disgusting watching two men kiss one another in the mouth.  
       “Now, Charlie, if you don’t mind. Mitchell and I have lots of guests to entertain in here.” 
       “Oh, go right ahead and get back to your guests.” 
       Derrick closed the door with gestures of being polite. No harm done as far as Charlie was concerned. Charlie could’ve cared less if the inside of their apartment turned into an all-male gay orgy. Racist and gay neighbors were the last caliber of people he wanted to deal with. 
  CHAPTER—22 
       Howling winds swept over Brush Creek during the late night hours. Creatures left and entered their domains before daylight made its debut. A mental sickness which haunted Charlie since childhood urged him to revisit another perverted episode. Charlie camouflaged himself to blend in with the darkness which was blanketed around Brush Creek. The rabbits, squirrels, ducks, birds, sewer rats, and even snakes, were being closely watched by his set of menacing eyes. He was on a demented mission. 
       During his childhood, he’d created ugly and grotesque sights. An unexpected flashback placed him right back to when he snuck up on dogs and sliced them straight into their abdomen. Later, he’d dismember the limbs from their bodies. Smiling down on the bloody, butchered-up animal, he quenched his desire to commit a murder. Slaughtering up cats were no exceptions. Charlie’d creep over and snatch up a neighbor’s cat. He’d stab the poor creature enough times to turn it into mence meat. 
       Charlie looked up at the nighttime skies to watch the dark gray clouds conceal the bright stars. He stared down into the creek waters, only to turn away from the unpleasing sight his reflection casted. Anger and discontent was attached to him and wouldn’t let go. A rabbit squirmed through the thick brush and leaves. The wooded strips of Brush Creek contained several holes where the rabbits made their home.  
       Charlie had fierce nighttime vision. He scanned the wooded area until his eyes spotted the rabbit. The perfect target for a ferocious hunter like Charlie. Using gifted reflexes, he bolted at the rabbit and grabbed it by the neck. He snatched it off the ground and executed a powerful stranglehold. 
       Squeals of pain cried from inside the rabbit’s soul. Twists and turns couldn’t save the poor animal from the torturous tactics of Charlie. His hands held the rabbit’s head like a vice grip. A hard jerk of its neck snapped the collar bone. He slid out a sharp pocketknife he’d carried around since his tour in Vietnam. The razor-like blade penetrated the coat, slicing into the internal organs, blood dripping to the ground in thick spurts.  
       Charlie clenched his teeth and balled up both fists. Other creatures in Brush Creek fled with the quickness. Even animals sensed how much of a sicko he was. The demented ritual, the unconventional sacrifice, soon took place.  
       Charlie lifted the butchered-up rabbit high to the skies. “Brush Creek, I make this offering to you. Brush Creek, you are the very substance of my existence. I live, eat, sleep, breathe, think, drink, talk, and walk for you, Brush Creek. Please accept this offering as my sacrifice to you.” 
       The sickness he possessed only elevated. Only someone mentally-challenged believed a creek designed to regulate raw sewage responded to them. Did Brush Creek honor his request? Did something constructed from concrete and dirt and murky waters and tree brush speak back? 
       Charlie dropped the rabbit to the ground. Blood from the animal had dried onto his hands. Not one passing second did he think about law enforcement possibly keeping Brush Creek under tight surveillance. He always had perfect timing. Eluding the wrong people was one of his key talents. Killing a rabbit only warmed Charlie up for his next murderous assignment. 
  CHAPTER—23 
       Women who’d suffered the brutal attacks of insensitive men decided enough was enough. After word got around town about how some nutbucket had mutilated a prostitute from off Independence Avenue, and then dumped her body into the sewage-infested waters of Brush Creek, women were angered to the point of extreme retaliation. The second victim found in Brush Creek sparked even stronger outrage amongst Sandy Barnholtz and her forever lesbian lover, Carol Wexler.  
       Over thirty women from the newly-formed group called S.A.V.E. filled the large home owned by Sandy and Carol. S.A.V.E. became the prominent acronym for Sisters Against Violence Encounters. The very women from the S.A.V.E. group installed new security systems on their houses. Gun shops were pleased to see their gun sales skyrocket. Enrollment in self-defense classes showed higher attendances. Women secured extra locks on all their doors and checked them quite thoroughly while coming and leaving.       
       Their children played with the closest supervision.  
       Sandy opened the meeting by saying, “I’d like to thank all of you ladies for attending yet another important meeting for S.A.V.E. Carol and I are honored to have you as guests in our home. We need to get to the direct source of the violent and random killings of women.” 
       Carol stepped in front of Sandy and said, “Sandy and I decided to call this meeting after learning about yet another victim found dismembered in Brush Creek. Ladies of S.A.V.E., there is a serious psychopath on the loose who’s playing a cat-and-mouse game with the law and the community. This meeting is extremely urgent, and we’d like to open the floor to discussion.” 
       Before the meeting opened for discussion, the women satisfied their hunger by nibbling on snacks. They quenched their thirst with some fruitpunch and soda. Yet another explosion of estrogen would soon erupt under one roof.  
       Loretta Fredericks would be the first one to speak. “Are we dealing with a light killer here or a heavy killer? Are we being misinformed about what’s going on with this vicious bastard who’s done killed two women, then dumped their cut-up bodies in Brush Creek?” 
       “These victim’s families will suffer for the rest of their lives,” Sandy defended, fury raising her blood pressure. “To answer your question, this lowlife sonofabitch is definitely in the category of being a heavy killer. Think about it, in boxing, you have three weight divisions. You have the lightweight, the middleweight, and the heavyweight divisions. Whoever this scum is who’s done killed these two women, he’s operating in the heavyweight division.” 
       Loretta bobbled her head. “I’d like to bring up the Gillham Park murders. Just this past weekend, another black woman was found suffocated after some killer forced mud and twigs down her throat.” 
       Her statement proved that murder didn’t know neither black or white. 
       Carol gestured with sympathy to Loretta. “The Gillham Park murders are getting way out of hand. More black women are turning up dead in that park than ever before.” 
       “It’s not a black or white issue with me. It’s an issue of a human being getting treated like a worthless piece of garbage.” 
       Sandy respectfully moved into the discussion. “Okay, let’s focus for a moment on the last victim found in trashbags around Brush Creek. Carol and I read the newspaper articles. We saw the news clips. We read the actual homicide reports, and went as far as getting access to the autopsy reports. Sure, this woman Kimberly Barr, she had ties to prostitution and drug addiction. Sure, she worked those crazy, dangerous streets of Independence Avenue. But, she didn’t deserve to die the way she did.” 
       Loretta’s estrogen level was ready to create a human time bomb. “The same can be said about all the black women found strangled and beaten to death in Gillham Park. Yes, it’s true, they were tied to drugs and prostitution. But nothing they did should’ve caused them to die that way. Something’s got to be done about all the women turning up dead around Kansas City, no matter if they’re black, white, Mexican, or Chinese.” 
       “Or what their socio-economic background is,” Sandy contended, her hand cupped to the side of her mouth. “The country we live in is one that believes that women matter, that our souls are very precious, and that we should be treated as such. We, the women of S.A.V.E., believe that women’s lives, and harm done to their lives, do matter.” 
       Carol’s temper was on a meteoric rise. “Also, we the women of S.A.V.E., believe that these women’s killers should pay a very high price when they’re caught. Why? Because the victims and their families are gonna have to pay a very high price with the loss of their loved ones.” 
       Strangely, a smile popped on the face of Sandy.  
       Sandy pointed to the middle of the audience. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce to you Viola Jackman. She’s a veteran self-defense instructor with expertise in the martial arts and firearms. Let’s all give Viola a huge round of applause.” 
       The audience stood on their feet and pounded their hands together for a warm welcome. Viola produced a smile of cordiality. She took a bow to show the women how much she appreciated their gesture. 
       “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Viola expressed three times. “You ladies are much, much too kind. It’s an honor as well as privilege to be with you tonight.” 
       Most eyes in the audience studied the six foot, muscularly-solid build of Viola. Quite a large woman, she spoke with a baritone voice, with hard facial features to match. Lesbians among Viola noticed how she’d become the reigning queen of a growing gay nation. 
       “First, I’d like to show you how to fight off your attackers,” Viola began. “There are very simple things you can use to defend yourself.” 
       Viola flashed an umbrella, an ink pen, and a set of keys before the group of women. 
       “Do you have to be a martial artist expert to learn how to use them?” asked Shannon Murphy, a victim who still lived the nightmare of being brutally raped and attacked. 
       “Absolutely not,” Viola sustained. “I’d like to ask for a volunteer from the audience.” 
       Who’d be the first person to stand up among the crowd other than Cynthia Garrington? Still the frail woman who’d also suffered a brutal rape and attack, she weaved her way to the front of the room.  
       “Let’s start with the inkpen first,” Viola suggested. “An object of this size and effectiveness can do severe damage.” 
       Viola handed the inkpen to Shannon. She instructed her to stage a potential stabbing if she lunged towards her. She showed the women how to stab a rapist and attacker in the eyes, in the throat, in the mouth, and even down by his precious family jewels. 
       “Next, we’re going to use the umbrella,” Viola presented. “The umbrella can be used like a bat or club of some sort.” 
       Tactfully, she handed the umbrella to Shannon. She showed everyone the mechanics of how to ward off an attacker. The women were shown how to strike their attacker across the head, the chest, and then kick them down by the groin area. 
       “Last, we’re going to use a set of house keys and car keys,” Viola exhibited. “The keys can be used just like the inkpen, even more effectively.” 
       Finally, she dropped the keys into the hands of Shannon. They’d been shown how to poke away at the eyes, scratch all across the face and neck, and then kick and scratch with everything they had. 
       “I’d like to ask a question,” said Laurie Schumann, the one victim who had so much to gain from lessons of protecting oneself. 
       “Go right ahead.” 
       “If a rapist or attacker got poked in the eyes with the inkpen, and then the ink spilled into their eyes, couldn’t that possibly blind their asses?” 
       “Absolutely.” 
       “Yesssssssssssssss!” Laurie vigorously cheered.  
       Cheers followed from the other women of S.A.V.E. 
       Sheena Sawyer swung her arm in the air. “Viola, I’d like to ask you a question.” 
       “Be my guest.” 
       “Aren’t the metal on the keys sharp enough to rip the skin from around their eyes, then cause lots of bleeding to the point where they can’t see?” 
       “You betcha,” Viola affirmed. “Keys are just shy of being as sharp as a razor or a knife. But they most certainly can cause enough damage to send your attacker away with bleeding eyes.” 
       “Grrrrrrrrrrreat!” Sheena exclaimed, the highest dose of enthusiasm. 
       The enthusiasm in the audience was contagious. They hugged and high-fived one another. 
       “In any case, you have to do whatever’s necessary to survive. It’s my understanding that all of you women of S.A.V.E. have been victimized to some degree by a male assailant. I’d like to move on to a greater caliber of self-defense.” 
       Viola produced a series of three popular handguns. A nine millimeter, a .45 automatic, and a .38 special handguns were placed on a table set up by Sandy and Carol before the meeting. Clips and ammunition sat at the edge of the table. Sets of curious eyes moved in sensible hysteria.  
       “The first gun I’d like to present is the Smith and Wesson Nine Millimeter,” Viola showcased before the attentive women. “This powerful handgun has devised a revolver that holds eight cartridges.” 
       Viola swung open the cylinder and showed the spaces where the cartridges went. 
       “Now that’s a beautiful piece of protection,” Shannon commented, enticement in her eyes. 
       “This eight shot revolver doesn’t have the sleek streamlined look of the traditional Smith and Wesson,” Viola continued. “This weapon can soon give way for those extra two shots that might save your life in a shootout or during an attack.” 
       “A gun that big can probably stop a raging bull,” Sandy assumed, in awe over the weapon. 
       An unexpected burst of laughter bounced around the front room. 
       The meeting was now in full throttle. 
       Viola held the weapon high in the air. She pointed to the inside of the barrel. “As with the majority of revolvers, there are different barrel lengths to suit the owner’s needs. A longer six, seven, or eight inch barrel revolver fits nicely into a holster attached on a belt. The revolver’s 1 ½ inch barrel fits into your jacket or a ladies handbag.” 
       Loretta thrusted her arm in the air. “Question, Viola.” 
       “Go right ahead.” 
       “When I ask this question, I speak for all the women present. Doesn’t some practice at the firing range help when learning how to use these guns?” 
       “Absolutely,” Viola motioned with the gun. “Accuracy, as far as being able to hit your target, is crucial. Missing your target can be a matter of life and death. When firing this .357 Magnum with a 1 ½ inch barrel, a strong and firm grip on the revolver’s butt must be maintained.” 
       Viola sat the magnum on the table. She lifted the next handgun for her audience to catch a glimpse. “Next ladies, we have the Smith and Wesson .38 revolver. This firearm has a cylinder containing multiple chambers and at a short barrel for short firing.” 
       Viola moved closer to the audience of women. She gave them the closest view possible. The ladies were stunned as they looked upon the shiny piece of metal with killing potential. 
       “As the user yourself, cocks the hammer, the cylinder revolves to align the next chamber and round with the hammer.” 
       Sheena leaned forward for better viewing purposes. “Viola, does it really take an expert to get some shots off on some psychopath who tries to attack you?” 
       “Not in any sense of the word. Some skill and common sense will do just fine. Adrenalin and willpower does amazing things when you’re put in those situations.” 
       Wiggling bodies indicated it was time to do some stretching.  
       Not that they were bored with Viola’s speech on self-defense, but sitting down for too long put some body parts to sleep. Coating their bellies with snacks set out by Sandy and Carol did the ladies much justice. Beverages soothed their dry mouths and washed down the food. Viola shifted into the final phase of her speech on self-defense mechanisms.  
       Last, she reached into a black Addidas athletic bag and produced a mase pepper gun and a stun gun. The next item up for self-defense demonstration was the mase pepper gun. The women weren’t for sure about the small plastic gun clutched in her hand. 
       “Ladies,” Viola displayed. “We’re normally used to mase being stored in cans with leather carrying pouches. But, what I’m holding in my hand is a blue mace pepper gun.” 
       “Does look a lot different from your usual carry-around mase,” Cynthia mentioned, dissecting the anatomy of the mase gun. 
       The women had so many options in protecting themselves until they sizzled with joy. 
       “I must agree,” Viola corresponded. “This gun that I’m holding sprays up to twenty-five feet.” 
       “Twenty five feet!” Loretta gurgled. “So, you can take that mase gun and spray their eyeballs out, even when they’re twenty-five feet away?” 
       “No question about it,” Viola consented. 
       “Wow! So, if a bastard starts rushing towards you from twenty-five feet away, you can drop him before he can get within close range.” 
       “Every new OC cartridge contains up to seven to twenty-five blasts.” 
       “Not bad at all.” 
       Viola tilted the plastic gun sideways to show off a terrific feature. “There’s a trigger activated LED light on the side.” 
       “And what’s the light used for?” Carol asked, trying to gain familiarity with the protective weapon. 
       “The LED light allows for a much better aim.” 
       “Awesome, Viola.” 
       “You’re able to spot your attacker even in the darkest of situations.” 
       “Look out dark alleys and creepy places like Brush Creek. Viola, tell all of us women what the mase can do to our would-be attackers.” 
       “For starters, it temporarily disorients the intruder. They temporarily lose their sight and an excruciating burning feeling makes them plead for the mercy of death. Mase really works and every woman should carry some in their purses and handbags.” 
       “Could you tell us where we can purchase the mase gun, and what’s included in the package when you do make your purchase?” Sandy suggested, eager to be the first one to buy her’s. 
       Viola sent out a pleasurable gesture. “Ladies, you can go to any outlet that sells martial arts supplies and self-defense items. Included in the package is a twenty-eight gram OC dispenser, a water test cartridge, and batteries for the LED light.” 
       Viola set the mace pepper gun aside. The stun gun was the last self-defense object presented. “Okay ladies, the last thing I’d like to present to you is the stun gun. Stun guns fall into the category of non-lethal weaponry. They can incapacitate a person without causing permanent damage.” 
       “Without causing permanent damage?” Sheena objected, her eyes fixed on the stun gun. “I thought the purpose of using them was to permanently damage the sonofabitch who tries to rape or kill you. I’m sorry, but if I ever had to use one of them, I’d try to cripple the bastard who wanted to hurt me.” 
       “Wise of you to think like that. But the proper protective protocol is to subdue or disorient your attacker and run away as fast as you can.” 
       “I can go along with that.” 
       Viola honored all questions and concerns. Her audience remained focused. “Stun guns pass a charge into the body that combines with the electrical signals from the person’s brain. Neuromuscular incapacitation occurs from the stun gun.” 
       “How much does it slow your attacker down?” asked Shannon, her adrenalin doing somersaults. 
       “The stun gun causes a rapid work cycle which instantly depletes the attacker’s blood sugar by converting it to lactic acid. When a stun gun touches both probes against the attacker’s body for a half-second, it will startle the attacker.” 
       “Are there any other after affects?” Laurie questioned, vengeful tactics racing through her mind. 
      “They experience severe pain, muscular contractions, muscle spasms, and a dazed mental state. In closing, ladies, the streetwise ‘small fry’ mini stun gun is the smallest model and has the highest knock down power of one million volts. The best part is that it weighs only seven ounces and is only three inches long. I thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my expertise with you in protecting yourself from intruders.” 
       Sandy pulled Viola closer to the front. She lifted her arm high in the air. “Ladies, please give Viola a huge round of applause for taking time out of her busy schedule to instruct us on how to protect ourselves.” 
       The room of over thirty women erupted into mad applauses. A standing ovation was what Viola received from a cluster of appreciative women.  
       Carol lifted the other arm of Viola. “Ladies of S.A.V.E., it’s people like Viola who sustains us, someone who keeps us alert and helps to keep us preserved. It’s no joke in relation to what’s going on out there nowadays. Innocent women and children are being violated through rape and murder and molestation. We’ve had enough, ladies, and we’re going to put an end to it.” 
       The audience pounded their palms together for more monstrous applauses. 
       Sandy expressed her concern in more civilized ways. “Ladies, we’re not men haters from hell. But whoever murdered the two women and dumped their mutilated bodies into Brush Creek, it’s just a matter of time before they’re caught. We, the women of S.A.V.E., are going to prove to this savage that we’re human beings like everybody else.” 
       Carol came in right behind Sandy. “No, we’re definitely not men haters from hell. But like Loretta said, the African-American women being dumped into Gillham Park will be caught soon enough. And they should be punished equally for the abduction, the murder, and the dumping of the bodies in the park. Enough is enough, ladies of S.A.V.E!” 
       The women in attendance were all lesbians. They had lesbian lovers to go home to or visit with somewhere outside the home. The mentioning of men’s names, or the actual sight of men, disgusted them to the point of wanting to puke. Men living on the Earth knew they couldn’t push all women around. Why couldn’t men recognize that? Truth be revealed, all of them weren’t bad, though most women were convinced that 99.9999999999 percent of them were. Only 0.0000000000001 percent were worth the time of day. 
       The meeting with the women of S.A.V.E. was adjourned. Sandy and Carol escorted them out the front door. The tension, yet big excitement from the meeting, had Sandy somewhat fatigued. Carol had her ways taking care of her beloved lesbian lover. A pair of strong and gentle hands crept their way across her shoulders.  
       Carol’s fingers worked their way down into the skin, going straight to the tense muscles and joints. A draft of warm, mesmerizing breath drifted around her ears, then on the side of her face. Sandy making love to Carol never felt better. 
       “Let’s head to the bedroom to finish this up,” Sandy initiated, her voice seductively inviting. 
       “Don’t mind if we do,” Carol replied, pulling her shirt halfway up to entice Sandy. 
       “Whew! It’s getting sort of hot in here.” 
       “We can cool each other off or steam each other up. The choice is up to you.” 
       Sandy and Carol closed the door to their bedroom. Non-stop erotic pleasures took them beyond dimensions in which only the lovers enjoyed. 
  CHAPTER—24 
       All the willpower in the world couldn’t help Charlie escape out of the body he’d been cursed with. Mirrors became his worst enemy. Looking at his reflection simply demolished his self-esteem. A badly-pitted face and downright wrecked dental work inflicted a self-hatred upon him which could’ve never been explained. Voices. Demonic voices. Misleading voices. They spoke to him in frightening overtones. The harsh reasoning of “if only” punished his sense of mental and emotional well-being.  
       If only I could clear my face. If only I could get some of my teeth straightened and others replaced. If only I could have a pair of cajones and a prick to have mad sex with a woman. If only I didn’t go to Vietnam and take part in murdering innocent women and children in cold blood. If only women were interested in me, I’d get my self-esteem back, possibly go out on regular dates. If only I could make myself accessible amongst crowds, I’d take on the attitude that I can conquer the world. For Charlie, all of the “if onlys” were wishful thinking.  
       His hatred for women grew by the day. Still, the voices of demonic dimensions spoke to him. Go down to Brush Creek once again. Once you get to Brush Creek, you won’t have to dump a dismembered body into the sewage infested waters. Just go there and disrupt the harmony of nature. Find animals to kill and sacrifice to the misgivings of Brush Creek. Before acting on the commands given by these voices, Charlie heard loud music coming from the first floor. Stepping into the hallway, the crooning voice of Luther Vandross faltered up and down the stairways. 
       “Those faggots are at it again!” Charlie sizzled through clenched teeth. “The lords of all gaylords down there are always complaining about me making noise up here.” 
       The only way for Derrick and Mitchell to hear complaints voiced by Charlie is for him to make a trip down the flight of stairs. And he did just that. He knocked several times. Derrick opened the door nursing a frosty bottle of beer. A lousy odor of hard alcohol blew from his mouth. A host of other gay men trotted over by the door to be nosy. 
       Charlie moved one leg closer inside their apartment. “Guys, I know I’ve been known to make some noise from time-to-time upstairs. But these wild parties are happening every weekend and it’s gotten to the point of being annoying.” 
       Derrick swagged his head. “Charlie, you seem to be the only one here at The Rosenburg complaining. Now, if Mitchell and I went to the management about that workshop castastrophe you’ve been up there creating, you would’ve gotten thrown out of here a long time ago. We’ve been fair with you, and you should be fair with us.” 
       Charlie moved himself closer inside the apartment.  
       Derrick stamped his hand at the middle of his chest. “Charlie, you don’t wanna come in here.” 
       “Being around lots of gay men doesn’t bother me,” Charlie sustained. “As long as they keep their hands to themselves. You know, just don’t get the wrong idea.” 
       “Charlie, I’m telling you, you don’t wanna come in here.” 
       The odor of all-male sex saturated the air. In both bedrooms, gay male sex took place. Derrick and Mitchell weren’t ashamed. The abomination of carnal homosexuality knew no boundaries within their apartment. Charlie looked across the front room and the biggest surprise threw him way off guard. A gay male porn movie played on a sixty-inch television. 
       “Shucks, man!” Charlie detested, a disfiguring twist around his mouth. “How disgusting to watch those kinda movies.” 
       “And that’s why I told you that you didn’t need to come in here,” Derrick defended. 
       “Sure, you did warn me ahead of time.” 
       “If you’re not indulging, then don’t complain.” 
       “Let me tell you something, Derrick. I’m one-hundred percent certified man. I’m straighter than the straightest arrow. We’ve been neighbors long enough here at The Rosenburg for you to know that.” 
       Watching two men do one another. Charlie just couldn’t stand one second of it. The gay lifestyle wasn’t for him.  
       “Will you guys be done before midnight?” 
       “Depends.” 
       “On what?” 
       In the sweetest, yet feminist voice, Derrick said, “If all the boys here are satisfied, then we might be tired out and ready to close up shop. Why’d you ask, Charlie?” 
       “No particular reason.” 
       “Something going on at midnight?” 
       “Nothing.” 
       “Are you going to start all that bamming and kicking and jumping up there again?” 
       “Not on your life.” 
       “Are Mitchell and I gonna have to show up at your front door with the police?” 
       “Never the police.” 
       Derrick observed the pits embedded in Charlie’s face. The frown he disguised from his face he let loose inside his guts. Charlie faced enough humiliation in his lifetime. Several men appeared from out of both bedrooms in the back of the sex-saturated apartment. They wiped sweat from their faces. They buckled up their pants. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out they’d engaged in male group sex.   
   
   
   
   
       “My timing’s way off,” Charlie said. “I can see that I showed up at the wrongest of times.” 
       “Look, Charlie,” Derrick snuffed, huffing breaths of femininity. “We’ve been neighbors for quite some time. You already know that Mitchell and I are two gay men. You also know that we invite a lot of our gay male friends over from time-to-time. What goes on in our place is our business, and it’s our business only. What goes on in your place upstairs is your business. Be it anyone, straight or gay, what they do in the privacy of their homes and in the privacy of their bedrooms, it’s between them and that other person.” 
       Charlie clapped lightly. “Very well said, Derrick. Just go on and keep doing what you’ve been doing.” 
       “Mitchell and I have both worked for the IRS for over twenty years. All the people at the IRS know we’re an interracial gay couple. We don’t care if they accept us or not. We’re in love.” 
       Charlie’s nerves slipped into wrecked mode. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say you work for the IRS?” 
       “Yes, you heard right.” 
       “The IRS building down on Pershing Road?” 
       “Yes, the IRS building at 333 Pershing Road. Something wrong with that?” 
       “No, nothing’s wrong. We’ve been neighbors all these years and I’ve never known where you guys work.” 
       “Why are you looking like you’ve been sentenced to death?” 
       “No reason in particular.” 
       “Excuse me,” Derrick said in his signature sassy voice. “We are working class people who know the meaning of earning a paycheck.” 
       Charlie wanted to pick Derrick’s brain. “So, did you know the woman who worked for the Internal Revenue that the jogger found in Brush Creek?” 
       Derrick shifted his emotions into overkill. “My baby Lisa Wallace. The nicest, the sweetest, the kindest woman in the whole wide world. The savage fucking beast who killed her and chopped her body up, I hope they find the bastard and do something a hundred times worse to him. I hope he burns in hell forever and ever.” 
       Derrick didn’t know that he was in the presence of Lisa Wallace’s killer. The beast who killed and mutilated her stood right before him. No remorse touched a single nerve throughout Charlie’s body.  
       “Quite a shame what happened to her. You just can’t trust a soul on this Earth.” 
       Two gay males slipped up from behind and fondled the more private parts of Derrick. This sent serious signals to Charlie. 
       “Well Charlie, as you can see, I’ve got some business to take care of. Guess I’ll be talking to you later.” 
       Derrick closed the door in his own polite fashion.  
       Charlie didn’t feel embarrassed or disrespected. He honored the fact that a group of homosexual men wanted to engage in more sex. He stepped outside and glanced up at the mysterious night skies. 
  CHAPTER—25 
       One of the remaining original concrete tunnels of Brush Creek ran south near the historical Leroy “Satchel” Paige Stadium. The well-manicured stadium faced the forever busy Swope Parkway and Deerbrook Apartments. Charlie parked his car near the intersection of Swope Parkway and Brush Creek Boulevard. The deep dark night presented itself as the perfect time for him to once again explore the demented world he’d been accustomed to. Raw sewage waters dripped from the top of the tunnel and down into more sewage waters and brush.  
       Squealing sounds echoed a few short yards away. Charlie heard those sounds before. Tunnels in Brush Creek were notorious for being occupied with large sewer rats. The familiarity sent him back to yet another episode of his time in Vietnam. Rat consumption skyrocketed into a booming business in Vietnam. Charlie witnessed the universality of this weird delicatessen and how it caught on with Vietnamese urbanites and American tourists. Rat meat actually turned out cheaper than poultry, beef, and pork. The rodents were easy to catch. 
       In a village filled with huts which’d become accustomed to cooking dogs and cats and snakes, were now cooking rats. Yummy! It’s exactly what those said who’d tasted the seasoned rodent meat. Charlie stepped into one of huts and looked around at the makeshift kitchen. Vietnamese chefs were steaming rat meat with lemon leaves. Large pots were stirred with sautéed meat with spring onions and herbs.  
       Charlie blatantly ignored the cultural argument from the soldiers in his infantry. A tall, dark-complexioned, and well-packaged soldier from another infantry stepped into the hut only a few minutes after Charlie. Jamie Long was his name, a black man from North Carolina who’d already served a tour of duty. His bulky football physique dominated most of the space. 
       “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” Jamie said with a disapproving grin. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to try this nasty rat meat.” 
       “Shouldn’t knock it until you try it,” Charlie hinted. “Meat is meat, and the aroma’s got my stomach wanting some.” 
       “Gross!” Jamie frowned. “The next plague will be through the rats. Forget about the bird flu, these things are gonna kill off a whole country.” 
       “Good eating or not, this is what’cha gotta do to survive sometimes.” 
       “I’d rather starve.” 
       “Jamie, these people live worse than anybody in any ghetto back in the states. If they weren’t eating this, that’s exactly what they’d do, they would literally starve to death.” 
       “In the ghettos of North Carolina, we fought off rats in order to keep food in our house. My younger brother got bit by a big rat and had to get all kinds of rabies shots. Rats dug holes through our walls and did all kinds of damage to our house, a house that was already falling apart from the top to the bottom. Charlie, we had rats and they fucking gave me the creeps.” 
       “Tell ya what, Jamie. Let me try some and let you know how it tastes.” 
       “Go right ahead my friend.” 
       Charlie bit into a sandwich with rat meat cooked and seasoned to perfection. The Vietnamese cooks smiled satisfactorily when they seen Charlie ripping into the sandwich. Truly appetizing couldn’t’ve described how good it tasted. 
       “Charlie, you know you’re one crazy fucking dago, don’t you?” Jamie resisted, the hardest frown rippled through his face. 
       “Now I’ve got a story to tell when I get back home.” 
       “What story?” 
       “How good rat burgers are.” 
       “Sick! Sick! Sick! That’s what you are, Charlie.” 
       Charlie came back to the present. Heavier waters dropped from the tunnel ceiling. Thick sewage shot every direction from the pounding splashes. Semi-bright rays of moonlight spilled inside the tunnel. The squealing noises increased with each passing second. Charlie looked around at every inch of the tunnel. Much to his dismay, four large sewer rats had emerged from the murky sewer waters and onto the wet concrete. The four huge rodents shook off excess water and looked every direction to find their bearings. 
       An extreme rush of adrenalin shot through Charlie. Supernatural reflexes charged him with enough speed to rush one of the sewer rats and grab it by the head and midsection. The other three dove back into the water and swam further up the tunnel. Jerking and biting wasn’t tactical enough for the oversized rat to break the iron grip of Charlie’s powerful hands. Bones along the rat’s vertebrae were cracked. Fizzling saliva shot from its mouth. The deep gashes of the rat bites along his hands didn’t bother Charlie one bit. Vietnam toughened him to ignore pain. 
       A mighty burst of light shot into the dark tunnel. Mixed with the already glowing moonlight which dominated the nighttime skies, a brightness strong enough to raise the dead had somewhat revealed every subject inside the tunnel. Charlie dropped the dead rodent to the ground. Where’d this unexpected explosion of light come from?  
       A proud uniformed officer stood on the other side of the calm creek waters with his service revolver pointed straight towards Charlie. Little did Charlie know that several KCPD officers were assigned to keep Brush Creek under tight surveillance. It’s my ass they’ve got! Thoughts like those nearly made him shit his pants. 
       “Hey, what are you doing here in Brush Creek this late?” asked the highly-skilled, fiercely attentive KCPD officer. He held his pistol steady, ready to put a hot one in the chest of Charlie. 
       Charlie gulped out a nervous response. “Officer, I’m just taking a night stroll.” 
       “Night stroll my ass!” the officer disregarded, watching every his every move.  
       “No seriously, I just came for a late walk to clear my mind.” 
       “Betcha ready to dump another body in Brush Creek, aren’t you?” 
       “Who me?” 
       “Yes you.” 
       “Officer, I’m innocent.” 
       The police officer knew he’d nailed the right guy. “Alright, I want you to interlock your fingers and place your hands on top of your head.” 
       Charlie obeyed his command. He placed both hands at the top center of his head. 
       “Now, very slowly, I want you to turn away from facing me.” 
       Charlie followed his instructions with exact detail. 
       “Alright, I want you to bend down to your knees and cross your legs.” 
       The officer didn’t mind getting his shoes and uniform dirty by crossing the sewage waters. This showed true dedication to his work. As he approached Charlie with the gun pointed at his back, Charlie had his eyes on a big chunk of concrete from the tunnel. Enemy personnel tucked away in the Vietnamese jungles were no match for him. No way would a police officer be a match for him, no matter how much training he had. With the officer being approximately fifteen yards away, Charlie felt he had to make his move. He refused to be taken down when there was so much more killing to do. 
       Jumping at a phenomenal speed, he dove for the chunk of concrete and rolled towards the other side of the tunnel. The officer fired the first shot. The bullet ricocheted off the tunnel floor. Before another round was discharged from the revolver, Charlie threw the large rock. His aim hit its target like a baseball pitcher throwing the perfect strike. The rock struck the officer right between his eyes. The impact wasn’t pretty at all. Blood squirted from the corner of his eyes. He dropped both his gun and the floodlight. 
       Charlie took off running towards the opposite end of the tunnel. For the disgruntled officer, it was far from over. Slight damage might’ve been done to his sight, but he could still reach for his walkie talkie and radio for help. A familiar crackling noise shot over the radio of Officer Richard Dolan. More giant sewer rats jumped into the murky creek waters and created mild splashes. Officer Dolan jerked his bright floodlight all along the tunnel floor and walls to make sure none of the aggressive rodents wanted to attack him. 
       “912 to respond, 912 to respond,” Officer Dolan spoke, doses of anger going into the radio. 
       “Go ahead,” responded the dispatcher at the command unit. 
       “This is Officer Richard Dolan. Are you clear?” 
       “Yes, Officer Dolan, everything’s clear.” 
       “Can I get a ‘King One’ canine unit down here in Brush Creek?” 
       “What’s your exact ten-twenty there at Brush Creek?” 
       “I’m here at the vicinity of Brush Creek Boulevard and Swope Parkway.” 
       “Canine unit will be dispatched very soon.” 
       “Please alert other units that this suspect is considered armed and dangerous.” 
       “Stand by.” 
       “Ten-four.” 
       And while Officer Dolan stoodby for the help he so diligently needed, he watched his back to make sure none of the rats who did their hunting through the night decided to have him as a meal. 
       Quicker than a shooting star fading across midnight skies, the KCPD canine unit responded to the urgency of Officer Richard Dolan. Master Patrol Officer Seth Jacobson arrived at Brush Creek in less than fifteen minutes. A tall, broad-shouldered, and compact man with a bushy brown mustache and frizzy thinning hair, Jacobson had been partnered up with Bruno, one of the strongest and healthiest German Shepard canines throughout the entire police department. Bruno stood proud with a noticeable muscular frame. A shiny coat bolstered how he’d eaten good and exercised regularly. 
       “Richie, what happened down here in Brush Creek?” inquired Officer Jacobson, itching to turn Bruno loose to capture their assailant. 
       Officer Dolan pointed over at the dark tunnel. “Spotted some guy standing around inside the tunnel.” 
       “A vagrant?” 
       “Possibly a suspect involved with those two Brush Creek killings.” 
       “You get a look at him?” 
       “The floodlight sorta flashed across his face.” 
       “Well?” 
       “He had a nightmare-of-a-face.” 
       Officer Jacobson moved closer to his valued colleague. “Think you might need medical attention, Richie?” 
       “Wouldn’t hurt to let the med techs look at me.” 
       “I’m ready to send Bruno inside the tunnel.” 
       “After he whacked me in the face with the rock, he ran the other way.” 
       “Where, towards the stadium?” 
       “Sure did. Hey, I think we should also get the air unit out here.” 
       “Wouldn’t be a bad idea.” 
       MPO Jacobson snapped the lease from around the neck of Bruno and released him. The one-hundred and sixty pound German Shepard shot right into the tunnel to apprehend the dangerous suspect. Only minutes after entering the tunnel, Bruno picked up a scent. The human scent belonged to Charlie. Traveling through Vietnamese jungles with enemy personnel on all sides were no challenge. Finding his way through a sewage-infested tunnel with a canine in hot pursuit was fun. 
       Charlie stomped through knee-high waters as human and animal waste splashed all over his body. Bruno barked louder the closer he got to his target. More large sewer rats squealed from the holes they’d dug from both sides of the tunnel. Possums found sanctuary from the upper crest of the tunnel. Why didn’t Charlie take the big lead he’d been given before the canine unit had been called out?  
       He might’ve been up for another one of his sick challenges. The faster Charlie ran, the louder Bruno barked. Officers Dolan and Jacobson waited to see if the police canine had apprehended their suspect. Charlie was only a few yards from the end of the long tunnel. Bruno’s superior senses got him a few short feet away from his prize. The prize had greater survival skills than any canine alive. Only a short distance were between Charlie and Bruno. The large husky dog sprinted into the air and jumped onto Charlie’s back.  
       Bruno tackled him with superb execution. The dog’s upper and lower rows of teeth sunk deep into the thick flesh of Charlie. His skin broke open and blood shot out like water from a mini fountain. Despite the pain he felt from the dog’s scissor-sharp teeth, Charlie made not one sound. Bruno locked stronger and wouldn’t let go. He jerked side-to-side like he could’ve ripped off his arm. Using brute strength and military tactical training, along with high levels of pure insanity, Charlie wrapped his other arm the neck of Bruno. 
       If he could snap the neck of enemy personnel in Vietnam, surely he could do the same to a canine. After several hard jerks, Bruno released his lock from around Charlie’s arm. The vertebrae in his neck had been snapped like a pencil. The whines of death echoed throughout the tunnel. Officer Richard Dolan and Master Patrol Officer Seth Jacobson knew something terrible had happened. Officer Jacobson trained enough canines to know the danger they faced. Too bad he didn’t know how dangerous the man was he’d sent his canine into the tunnel to apprehend. 
       “Bruuuuuuuuuuno!” Officer Jacobson yelled, jogging the bright floodlight along the dark tunnel walls. “Bruno! Bruno! Are you alright, boy? If you’re okay, then respond to me, Bruno.” 
       The dog didn’t respond. He waited to see if his canine partner would return to him. Meanwhile, Charlie ran to the other end of the tunnel with large amounts of blood slinging from his arm. Bright street lights and the back end of Satchel Paige Stadium were there to greet him.      Charlie didn’t know which direction to run. Still, he could hear Officer Jacobson screaming out for Bruno. No response translated to how the dog could’ve been dead. Officers Jacobson and Dolan knew they weren’t dealing with a normal human being. Clotting blood formed a thick patch at the edge of Dolan’s eyes. With both of their weapons drawn, Jacobson and Dolan crossed the filthy sewer waters in their clean and pressed police uniforms.  
       Once inside the tunnel, both officers flashed their bright lights around every inch of space. Water dripping from the top and the annoying sounds of more large sewer rats sharpened their senses. One of the largest rats imaginable raced across several yards of sewer water. Dolan aimed his revolver in the same direction. Jacobson moved around in circles to make sure no one would sneak up on them. 
       “Richie, I’d hate to think the worse,” Jacobson told Dolan, possessed with extreme fright. “But something tells me that Bruno’s been killed by that maniac. He would’ve come back to me by now.” 
       “We both heard the whine made by Bruno,” Dolan replied with a nod. “Seth, we should’ve called for backup a long time ago.” 
       “That we definitely should’ve done.” 
       “Think that sonofabitch is still here inside the tunnel?” 
       “Either in here or somewhere over by Satchel Paige Stadium.” 
       “Never in all my years on the force did I think I’d come up on a nightmare like this.” 
       “It’s a part of our job. Always expect the unexpected.” 
       “Brush Creek is enough to give the biggest weirdo the creeps.” 
       Dolan and Jacobson traveled further into the tunnel with their service revolvers ready to fire at anything which looked or moved wrong.  
       Unaware, two big sewer rats rushed from behind a thick pile of raw sewage. Both officers pointed their lights and weapons in the same direction. The rodents had been feasting on garbage and dead fish. Too bad their meal had to be interrupted by a couple of KCPD officers who sought out a serial killer on the run.  
       Dolan sucked in a breath of weariness. “I’ll tell ya something, Seth. If one of those big juicy rats charge me, I won’t hesitate to fire a couple’a slugs into him.” 
       “It’ll be ammunition well used.” 
       “A diet rich in trash swells them up bigger than possums.” 
       “We need to keep our lights shining all over this tunnel.” 
       “Sure, before they decide to have us for dinner.” 
       Slightly past the middle of the tunnel, the bright lights of Dolan and Jacobson landed on a dead animal lying on its side. They rushed to see if it was Bolo. Heartbreaking enough, it was. 
       “Oh dam!” Jacobson crackled in denial. “We got here way too late. It’s Bruno and I’ll betcha that bastard killed him with his bare hands.” 
       Dolan bent down to do a quick diagnosis of the dog’s neck. “Seth, I’m no expert veterinarian here, but he broke Bruno’s collarbone like a popsicle stick.” 
       “Bruno chopped away at that sonofabitch before was killed.” 
       “All this blood around his mouth and his coat is proof of that.” 
       Jacobson shut his eyes and tucked in his bottom lip. “Why’d it have to be Bruno?” 
       To console his fellow brother in law enforcement, Dolan helped him shake off some of the hurt. “Seth, it’s gonna be alright. We’re going to make him pay for what he did to Bruno.” 
       “Richie, Bruno was like a family member to me. I would’ve never sent him into this Brush Creek tunnel after that sicko had I known he’d been killed.” 
       “Don’t go blaming yourself.” 
       “But I was his teacher, his trainer, his friend, his mentor, all of those things.” 
       Dolan bounced his floodlight towards the end of the tunnel. “Look Seth, there’s a blood trail leading out of the tunnel and over by Satchel Paige Stadium.” 
       Jacobson shot his floodlight in the same direction. “You’re right, Richie, there’s lots of blood going to the back of the stadium.” 
       “You think he might be closeby?” 
       “It’s a strong possibility.” 
       “The canine unit didn’t work in helping us apprehend this sicko sack of shit.” 
       “If he’s closeby, then the air unit’s gonna be a big help to us.” 
       “Air Support Division might be the last leg for us to stand on.” 
       “We better radio for backup.” 
       “Maniacs like him is a lot more dangerous than we know.” 
       Officer Dolan spoke with frustration into his radio. “Can you respond?” 
       “912 to respond,” answered the dispatcher. 
       “Are you clear?” 
       “Clear, go ahead.” 
       “Can I get an air unit out here by Brush Creek?” 
       “What’s your exact ten-twenty?” 
       “Brush Creek Boulevard and Swope Parkway.” 
       “Standby.” 
       “Ten-four.” 
       Dolan seem to have waited the longest seconds of his career.  
       The dispatcher came back over the radio. “An airborne unit is en route.” 
       “Ten-four.” 
       Officers Dolan and Jacobson moved further towards the end of the tunnel. Their weapons were drawn and pointed as though they’d wanted to take on an army. Jacobson took it as a personal affront how his dear canine had been killed. The trail of blood led them to a few feet beyond the tunnel. Mysteriously, the trail stopped. They were left wondering what happened to their suspect. Standing on the solid concrete roof of the tunnel was Charlie. The arm in which Bruno tried to bite off held a thick tree branch. A makeshift tourniquet was wrapped around his bloody arm. 
       Dolan and Jacobson bothered to not look up. Charlie studied both officers from above. Extreme levels of adrenalin charged him with power. He leaped from the top of the tunnel with the club-like tree branch drawn backwards. The branch landed perfect blows to the back of their heads. The impact leveled them to the ground. Their guns and bright lights went sliding across the wet slimy concrete. The stars in the nighttime skies weren’t the only ones they were seeing.  
       Like a major league slugger, Charlie swung at them with aggression. The branch pounded hard into the chests of Dolan and Jacobson. The damage had been done. A brilliant burst of light commanded its presence in the dark Kansas City skies high above. Charlie disappeared from the scene once he looked up and saw the helicopter whipping across the air. He sought refuge anywhere he could. No one knew the dynamics of Brush Creek better than Charlie.  
       The backup Dolan and Jacobson dispatched had arrived. Charlie rushed inside a separate tunnel on the other side of Satchel Paige Stadium near the Deerbrook Apartments. Chief Tactical Flight Officer Barry Lockhart of the KCPD Air Support Division spotted Charlie running inside the tunnel using the helicopter’s SX-5, thirteen million candlepower searchlight.  
       Using the chopper’s 800 Mhz Motorola radio, Tactical Officer Lockhart communicated with the ground officers. “Suspect fled into the tunnel on the other side of the stadium and the apartments.” 
       “Was the suspect armed when you spotted him?” asked one of the ground officers. 
       “Not from what I could see from up here.” 
       “Barry, this guy is considered very dangerous.” 
       “Yeah, I heard what he did to Richie and Seth.” 
       “We’re not dealing with your average criminal.” 
       “Homicide tells me that he’s probably responsible for the murders of those two women found in Brush Creek.” 
       “We’re going to request another canine unit.” 
       “You sure about bringing out another canine unit?” 
       “Why not?” 
       “Stop and think.” 
       “There’s nothing to think about.” 
       Before Officer Lockhart juiced up his chopper, he’d been briefed on what happened to fellow officers Dolan and Jacobson. The ground unit told him about how their suspect had twisted the neck of Bruno as only an expert killer could do.  
       “We’re dealing with an animal here. An animal kills another animal. If this psycho could kill Bruno and keep going, what makes you think that he couldn’t kill another one of our dogs?” 
       “That’s a chance we’ll have to take. This guy has got to be caught.” 
       “Whaddaya know about these tunnels in Brush Creek?” 
       “Not much.” 
       “Going on strong intuition, our suspect knows Brush Creek like the hand he uses to feed himself and to wipe his ass.” 
       “I’d have to agree, Barry. He probably knows Brush Creek better than the engineers who built the damn creek.” 
       “Look, we’re going to scour the area real thoroughly. If you come up with something, or if we come up something, let’s not hesitate to dispatch one another.” 
       “You’ve got it.” 
       “Ten-four.” 
       Tactical Officer Lockhart shot across the dark skies with his searchlight beaming down on Satchel Paige Stadium and the Deerbrook Apartments and nearby residences. Things might’ve been inconvenient for the residents, but one of the sickest men in Kansas City, Missouri was still on the loose. Lockhart aimed the bright light straight into the very tunnel in which Charlie ran inside.  
       Only water dripping from tunnel crevices and raw sewage plastered to the ground came within plain view. The brilliant burst of light casted from high above became a big pain in the ass for residents within a six block radius. Largely an African American neighborhood, men and women and their children stepped onto their porches and back patios to understand the magnitude of the sudden disturbance. 
       Considered the mother and caretaker of the whole neighborhood, Mother Esther Castleberry, one of the shortest and thinnest women one could’ve ever laid eyes on, smoldered her way through the building crowd. Mother Castleberry, a one-time native of Shreveport, Louisiana, had invested almost fifty years of her life to keeping the neighborhood safe from vandals, thieves, rapists, murderers, and hoodlums from any walk of life. 
       Mother Castleberry approached Officer Jacobson as the mild night winds blew her feathery thin gray hair every direction. “Officer, officer, could you tell us what’s going on?” 
       “Mam,” Officer Jacobson crooned. “Probably one of the most dangerous men in the city is on the loose around here. We started a foot chase on the other side of Brush Creek and he somehow got away.” 
       “What’d this man do, officer?” Mother Castleberry asked, her face twisted. 
       “What didn’t he do?” Officer Jacobson said. “We sent one of our canines in after him and he killed the poor dog. He whacked one of my fellow officers upside the head with a chunk of rock from inside the tunnel. He jumped from the top of the tunnel and floored me and my fellow officer with a big tree branch.” 
       Mother Castleberry extended her tiny hand towards Jacobson. “Sir, my name’s Esther Castleberry. I’ve been the block captain around here for almost fifty years. Most folks around here call me Mother Castleberry.” 
       “Fifty Years!” Jacobson cheered. “Mam, what’s the secret to your longevity?” 
       “Officer, I care about people. Folks gotta look out for one another.” 
       Jacobson pointed to the tunnel. “Mam, do you know anything about the tunnel over there?” 
       “Only that it goes a long way under the ground and ends up a whole lot of different places.” 
       “Have you ever seen anyone go in there?” 
       “Water department, but that was a few years ago.” 
       “The man we’re looking for ran in there.” 
       “Things are usually quiet around here. The only real noise we hear around here anymore is when they have baseball games over at the stadium.” 
       “And there’ve been some great games played over at Satchel Paige Stadium.” 
       “Brush Creek is the last place I’d wanna hang out. The news folks still talking about those two women they found all cut up in trashbags.” 
       “We believe that the man we went after tonight might be responsible for both of those killings.” 
       “Brush Creek is a scary place at nighttime.” 
       “Most people would agree with that.” 
       Jacobson loved talking with the kind old woman, but he and his colleagues had plenty of work in front of them. Tactical Flight Officer Lockhart worked the controls inside his OH-58C helicopter to make a hopeful discovery of their suspect. The chopper roared across the clear nighttime skies. The thick blades ripped through light breezes at sensible altitudes. The bastard they wanted was far too smart for them. The man had advanced military training which could’ve far exceeded their training.  
       Charlie had traveled just beyond a hundred yards inside the wet and smelly stretched tunnel. Translation, he’d gone beyond the complete length of a football field. The pharmaceuticals, the detergents, the household chemicals, the pesticides and insecticides, and all the raw urine and fecal coliform he’d explained to his victims, were being smeared on his clothing and splashed onto his face. 
       Stormwater and wastewater shot out in big spurts and pounded against his body. Those familiar squealing sounds echoed from the dark holes inside the tunnel. Charlie barely had enough room to crawl himself through the narrow passage way. Not a blink of light spilled into the pitch black tunnel. The solid concrete surface scratched against his clothing and skin. His aggressive movement caused enough friction to create painful scrapes and even bleeding. A pack of large sewer rats picked up on the blood scent.  
       A chorus of rodent squeals signaled Charlie might’ve been in grave danger. The infrastructure of the old decaying Brush Creek tunnels leaked with more water, which created more holes for the rats to build nests. Not only did Charlie carry his own body through the spooky passageway, but now he carried a serious pack of sewer rats. The rats boarded themselves onto his frame starting from his head down to his feet. Charlie jerked and twisted his arms and legs with barely enough room to shake the rats off. Creating such turbulence only stirred the creatures into total retaliation. 
       Their long sharp teeth sunk into his thick skin. The ferocious animals in the jungles of Vietnam were no match for him. He’d crowned himself “King of Brush Creek”. No human nor creature measured up to him. One-by-one, he grabbed the sewer rats by their heads and snapped their necks. Their squeals had signaled their sudden demise. Charlie left a trail of dead rodents stretching for more than several yards.  
       After traveling for more than two miles through the dark lifeless tunnel, an unexpected burst of light casted itself a few feet ahead. Finally, there’d been light at the end of the tunnel. Charlie rolled to his left side and his 2000 ml urine collection bag burst open like a water balloon. The medical supply company who sold him the urine bag promised maximum protection against tearing. No big deal since he had several more stashed away in boxes in his closet. Charlie had defeated an enemy once again. 
  CHAPTER—26 
       The diehard and dedicated lead homicide detective Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet climbed out of bed when he received the message about how close the KCPD had come to apprehending the possible suspect of the two Brush Creek murders. Despite the time being three thirty a.m., Lieutenant Overstreet rushed to the vicinity of Brush Creek Boulevard and Swope Parkway. His protégé, Detective Carey “Corky” Schroeder, arrived only minutes after his mentor.  
       Both detectives stopped off at one of the local convenience stores for their favorite cups of coffee and donuts. Officer Richard Dolan sat at the back of an ambulance getting patched up from the blow he’d gotten from the rock thrown by Charlie.  
       Canine Officer Seth Jacobson stood to the side of Dolan with countless visions going through his mind.  
       Lieutenant Overstreet sure had a load of questions for both officers. “Richie, about what time did you spot the perp in the tunnel?”  
       Dolan sucked in the early morning air. “Jerry, I’d have to say just past midnight, maybe slightly past one o’clock a.m.” 
       “Did your floodlight help you capture a good glance of him?”  
       “Like I told Seth, this guy had a nightmare-of-a-face. It looked like he’d been badly scarred across his entire face.” 
       “Did you make out his build, like his height and weight? How about his hair color and other features?” 
       “Shucks Jerry, it all happened so fast,” Dolan conservatively recalled. “By the time I whipped out my pistol, and told him to stay put until I got over by the tunnel, the sonofabitch gun-slinged a big chunk of rock and whacked me upside the head. By then, I responded to the canine unit and waited for Seth and Bruno to arrive.” 
       “Why didn’t you request backup?” 
       “I figured that I was only dealing with a single subject. Seth and Bruno were the only backup I needed.” 
       “Is it true that you fired a shot at him?” 
       “Had to since he looked like he might’ve been armed and dangerous.” 
       “Armed and dangerous is right,” Overstreet motioned with strong sentiments. “Richie, we’re not dealing with the average criminal here. It’s true that I wasn’t here when you fired the shot at this guy, but I can picture in my mind that he avoided getting shot and ran further off into the tunnel.” 
       “Avoiding a bullet and whacking me upside the head takes a lot of skill.” 
       “Skills that I bet the average criminal around here doesn’t have.” 
       Jacobson eased from around the side of the ambulance.  
       He had big questions for his superior. “Why is it that when I send my precious Bruno into the tunnel to apprehend that psycho, my dog that I’ve worked with for many years ends up dead?” 
       “The psycho you’re talking about is beyond reasoning,” Overstreet examined. “This man has tactical military and special forces training.” 
       “How do you know that, Jerry?” 
       “Who else can snap the neck of a large German Shepard as though it’s a little helpless puppy? Who else can make a clean getaway from trained officers like yourselves? Only someone with skilled training can stay from under the detection of the Air Support Division.” 
       “Speaking of Air Support, I wonder what’s the latest report with Barry.” 
       Overstreet picked up the radio belonging to Officer Dolan. He checked to see if the air unit made any progress. “Officer Lockhart, can you respond?” 
       “Yes Jerry, I respond.” 
       “Any ten-twenty on our possible suspect?” 
       “Status is the suspect ran into one of the tunnels and haven’t been spotted since.” 
       “How far can your chopper searchlight reach inside the tunnel?” 
       “Only the first twenty feet or so.” 
       “I’m aware those 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 big as coons and possums.” 
       “A place called Brush Creek, huh? And they get as big as coons and possums?” 
       “We’ve got tunnels in Brush Creek that reminds me of the ones over here in Vietnam. They’re dark and wet and smelly and filled with these humongous sewer rats.” 
       “You’ll have to show me this Brush Creek when our tour of duty ends.” 
       “Let’s just hope we make it out of Nam alive.” 
       Charlie slipped out of his sudden flashback and came back into the present. To put it exactly as Officer Dolan explained to Overstreet and Officer Jacobson, Charlie could hardly stare into the mirror at his nightmare-of-a-face. He possessed partial good looks until he was shipped off to Vietnam. Did the war rob him of the looks which attracted women like magnets? One thing was for sure, the war did rob him of his manhood.  
       Charlie dropped his pants to knee level. More bite marks from the dog caused blood clots around the deep wounds. Concrete burns redder than Jonathan Delicious Apples covered both kneecaps. He slid his boxer shorts well past the waist. Not having any genitalia stung him harder than a thousand hornets. No genitals meant no good sexual intercourse. Sex is what most men lived for. It’s a tragedy Charlie couldn’t accept the fact he couldn’t enjoy an orgasm. He reached over and applied another URO-3000 urine collection bag. Other people had to pay for his misfortune. Sadly, more innocent people were going to pay. 
  CHAPTER—28 
       Sandy Barnholtz sat on a plush sofa nursing a warm cup of Folger’s coffee. A fresh copy of “The Kansas City Times” covered her face. An article in the morning edition of the paper read:  POLICE CANINE DIES IN THE LINE OF DUTY. Being a diehard dog lover herself, Sandy snatched up the delivered paper from her front steps.  
       It ripped into her heart to read how Bruno, the canine partner of Master Patrol Officer Seth Jacobson, died while pursuing a crime suspect during the early morning hours down in Brush Creek. It sent chills through her to realize how a similar incident happened to her several months ago down in Brush Creek. Carol emerged from the bedroom yawning with both arms stretched in the air. 
       She dropped down on the sofa and cuddled up with her better half. “Hey babe, what’cha reading?” 
       The setting shifted to an alarming silence. 
       Sandy had hysteria in her eyes. “Article here in the paper says a German Shepard police dog was killed inside one of the tunnels down in Brush Creek.” 
       Carol jumped off the sofa with her mouth cupped. “How’d the dog die?” 
       “The article says a suspect broke the dog’s neck with his bare hands.” 
       “You’ve gotta be kidding.” 
       “Left the poor dog with a severed collarbone.” 
       “Honey, it’s gotta be the same maniac who killed Bolo and tried to rape and kill you!” 
       “And babe, you’re exactly right.” 
       “What else did the article say?” 
       Sandy’s eyes scanned one article line after another. “Well, says here that two KCPD officers were ambushed by the suspect after he jumped from the top of a tunnel. Says he struck both of them with a large tree branch and took off running into one of the tunnels over by Satchel Paige Stadium.” 
       Carol picked away at her own brains. “Honey, do you think he made it through that tunnel?” 
       “Who’s to say?” 
       “Think about it, there’re probably all kinds of giant sewer rats and big snakes inside those tunnels. My two brothers and uncles used to play around in Brush Creek when we were all youngsters. They’d come home with all kinds of stories about big sewer rats and snakes running and squirming their way out of those dark smelly tunnels.” 
       “And what about all that filthy sewer water and garbage flowing out of those tunnels?” 
       “That’s to say the least.” 
       “Carol, it’s all coming back to me.” 
       “What, babe?” 
       “When this sicko killed Bolo, and when he tried to rape and kill me, we stood right across from the tunnel that went straight through to Satchel Paige Stadium. This creep knows the ins and outs of Brush Creek like a bank officer knows the ins and outs of The Federal Reserve Bank.” 
       “Makes all the sense in the world to me.” 
       Sandy scanned further down the article. “Says the police who got ambushed called out the helicopter to try and find this monster.” 
       “No luck, I guess.” 
       “None whatsoever.” 
       Carol moved the newspaper aside and cuddled up with Sandy. “Honey, the lowlife bastard that the paper’s talking about, he’s gotta be the same puke who murdered and mutilated those two women they found in trashbags down in Brush Creek. Don’t you think it’s time to come forward and talk to the police?” 
       Sandy tilted her head in a bit of shame. “Babe, a blanket of guilt comes over me everytime you mention me going to the police and telling them about what happened to me that night down in Brush Creek.” 
       “Guilty is the last thing I’d try and make you feel, Sandy. He’s killed twice, and chances are he’ll keep on killing, because it’s probably how he gets his kicks.” 
       “Yes, yes, we know that this man has no regard for human life. And yes, we know that he’s probably a ‘woman hater’ who’s plotting his next kill. Voices in my mind keep telling me to go down to police headquarters and tell them what happened that night down in Brush Creek.” 
       “So, why don’t you do it?” 
       “Carol, I can’t answer that question.” 
       “If you could, would you answer it?” 
       “Sure I would.” 
       Sandy flipped to the next page of the newspaper. She discovered a composite sketch of the suspect who’d caused the KCPD so much anguish. “Hey babe, take a look at this.” 
       Carol leaned over to catch a glimpse of the composite drawing. “That’s supposed to be a drawing of the man who killed the dog and attacked the police officers?” 
       “Yes, from what this fine print says.” 
       Officer Richard Dolan sat down with police sketch artists and described the “nightmare-of-a-face” he’d briefly seen before firing a single shot at the suspect. It was dark. It was sudden. But he gave the best description he could. Getting popped upside the head with a chunk of rock didn’t help matters. The same “nightmare-of-a-face” he saw within a flash had been printed up in “The Kansas City Times”.   
       Sandy practically had the composite drawing plastered to her eyes. “Carol, this drawing kinda looks like the animal who killed my precious Bolo.” 
       “Really?” 
       “The officer who shot at him said that he looked like he had a pock marked face.” 
       “Those unattractive crater holes from severe acne, huh?” 
       “Yes, those pits that you get from popping your pimples.” 
       What Sandy and Carol didn’t know was Charlie became inflicted with those very pits from the harsh extremities of the Vietnam War. No, it wasn’t the growing pains of puberty. Climate, diet, stress, war artillery and harmful pesticides and insecticides, all were to blame for the “nightmare-of-a-face” Charlie had been stuck with. 
       Sandy zoomed in on the menacing eyes in the sketch. “The night Bolo and I were strolling through Brush Creek, that fucker had eyes that would stop you right in your tracks. His eyes could tear straight into your soul.” 
       “Are you saying this could be the same prick who you confronted down in the creek?” 
       “It’s exactly what I’m saying.” 
       “Sandy, you could be keeping a secret that could save other people’s lives.” 
       “Yes, Carol, we’ve talked about that many times before.” 
       “We should keep talking about it until you march into the police headquarters.” 
       Sandy placed the newspaper aside and engaged with Carol in a light bearhug. The pair of lesbian women needed one another moreso than ever. A serial killer was still on the loose. Sandy held on to information which could no longer be kept confidential.  
  CHAPTER—29 
       A week passed and Lieutenant Overstreet received the awaiting lab results. Carey and Overstreet met in the crime lab to see what veteran forensic expert Dr. Barney Purvis learned through DNA blood samples. Dr. Purvis stood mid-height with a lean figure and pushed back thick gray hair. A painful wisdom radiated across the face of the thirty-two year veteran of DNA forensic sciences. 
       “Hey, doc, what cha find out for us?” Overstreet asked, deprived of a full day’s sleep. 
       Dr. Purvis stretched his arms forward. He flashed microscopic photocopies of the DNA blood samples found at the crime scene. “Detectives, large trace amounts of the contaminant dioxin were found in the blood samples.” 
       “Dioxin?” Overstreet quizzed, his shoulders humped high. “Sounds familiar, doc, but doesn’t quite register.” 
       Overstreet wasn’t a chemist expert who could figure it out. 
       “Detectives, dioxin is one of several carcinogenic or teratogenic heterocyclic hydrocarbons that occur as impurities in petroleum-derived herbicides.” 
       Carey swirled his finger around in circles. “Wasn’t dioxin considered to be the most toxic chemical known to man?” 
       “Precisely, detective,” Dr. Purvis endorsed. “It’s an ingredient found in certain herbicides used widely throughout the world to help control plant growth. Because of its high level of toxicity, it’s no longer produced in the United States.” 
       “Are you telling us that our perp has dioxin swimming around in his blood?” 
       “Yes, my friend, and large amounts of it.” 
       “And you’re sure the blood came from our perp, and not our canine that was killed?” 
       “The DNA from this blood belongs to a human.” 
       “With the large dose of dioxin in his blood, where’s all this leading to, doc?” 
       “Dioxin is the toxic contaminant found in Agent Orange.” 
       “Agent Orange?” 
       “Yes, the chemical sprayed by U.S. military aircrafts on areas of Southeast Asia from 1965 to 1970 to kill concealing trees and shrubs.” 
       “I see you’re well-versed on Vietnam.” 
       “Didn’t serve there, but worked with many veterans who did.” 
       “What else can you tell us about the DNA in the blood?” 
       Dr. Purvis slid out a more sophisticated microscopic photocopy of a DNA sample. “Agent Orange is a mixture of the N-Butyl esters of 2,4-dichlorophenoxya acetic acid 2,4-D and 2,4,5-trichlorophenoxyacetic acid 2,4,5-T. These are the main chemical components found in the sample that you’re looking at.”   
       Overstreet tossed Dr. Purvis a polite grin. “In other words, our perp has Agent Orange in his blood.” 
       “Correct, detective.” 
       “So, it’s a strong possibility that the sicko we’re looking for is a Vietnam veteran?” 
       “Very strong possibility.” 
       “Something led me to believe that all along.” 
       “But it doesn’t stop there, detectives.” 
       “Whaddaya mean, doc?” 
       Dr. Purvis produced more forensic information to back up his conclusions. “Pieces of skin were removed from the teeth of the canine that was killed by the perp.” 
       Carey shook his head and said, “Yeah, doc, our canine took some bites out of this guy before he snapped his neck. Sorta like the commercial on television. Take a bite out of crime.” 
       “Our perp suffers from a severe condition known as Chloracne.” 
       Carey gave Overstreet a grave stare of confusion. “Neither one of us are familiar with such a condition.” 
       Dr. Purvis explained in refined details. “Chloracne is a skin condition marked by large blackheads and pimples in people who are in contact with chemical compounds such as cutting oils, paints, varnishes, and dioxin. This condition usually affects the face, arms, neck and any other exposed areas. It’s highly likely that the guy you’re going after has Chloracne from the dioxin in the Agent Orange.” 
       “I’ll tell ya what, doc,” Overstreet concurred. “One of our officers who’d been attacked by this psycho, said that he had a ‘nightmare-of-a-face’, like he’d been all scarred up from having real bad acne.” 
       “We don’t want the media getting wind of our full investigations,” Carey added. “Some of the things we learn through you guys must be kept confidential until everybody’s ready to make a sure move.” 
       Overstreet continued with his findings. “Also, I’ve spoken with Dr. McKinnis about both of our vics that were found mutilated down in Brush Creek. Dr. McKinnis is like yourself, he’s one of the best in all the business. After he showed me how those two women were mutilated and stuffed in trashbags, and then dumped down into Brush Creek, I knew this scumbag was a professional killer. We both determined that he operated both covertly and clandestinely, just like those highly-skilled military men do. He avoided being shot, ambushed a pair of officers, and then crawled his way through one of the tunnels.” 
       Carey interjected by saying, “Dr. Purvis, this animal knows how to put his military training into action.” 
       “Dr. McKinnis explained to me how our perp used a Full Tang Monster Machete to dismember both bodies. This is the same type of machete that was used to chop the tall vegetation through the jungles of Vietnam. There’s definitely a link between your findings and the findings of Dr. McKinnis.” 
       “Which is, this guy is a Vietnam War veteran.” 
       “There’s a nine-hundred and ninety-nine chance out of one-thousand that he served time in Vietnam.” 
       “Jerry, sounds like we’re narrowing things down. Question stands, does the easy work end and the hard work begins?” 
       “A little bit of both, Cork.” 
       “Our suspect is still around town somewhere.” 
       Overstreet reached into his thought bank and made a withdrawal. “But how do we narrow it down? How many Vietnam Veterans do we have in K.C.? How many of those veterans are actually carrying Agent Orange around? How many guys in our city have this ‘nightmare-of-a-face’ that Officer Richie Dolan spoke of? Who’d have in their possession this Full Tang Monster Machete that Dr. McKinnis described?” 
       Carey now had some questions of his own. “Doc, is it a possibility that our suspect is sick and dying?” 
       “It’s very possible.” 
       “Explain to me how it’s possible.” 
       “Well, Agent Orange can create many diseases throughout the body.” 
       “For instance?” 
       “Gastrointestinal tumors, which can lead to stomach, colon, rectal, and pancreatic cancers, brain tumors, circulatory, respiratory and immune disorders, motor and coordination dysfunction, and neuropsychiatric problems.” 
       “Psychiatric problems, too?” 
       “Absolutely,” Dr. Purvis contested. “The illusions and hallucinations and flashback episodes of the war causes these guys to just lose it and do weird and crazy things.” 
       “Like commit murder?” 
       “No question.” 
       “Even mutilation?” 
       “Quite possible.” 
       Carey propped his hand across Overstreet’s shoulder. “Jerry, we’ve got more than our work cut out for us.” 
       “What would it take to make this guy slip up?” 
       “We’ve already posted up one of our best officers down there in Brush Creek.” 
       “We’re dealing with a pro and a maniac at the same time.” 
       “A pro and a maniac who’s probably working on his next victim.” 
       “Question is, will we get to him before the Agent Orange does?” 
       “That shit has probably been eating up his insides for quite some time.” 
       “And the insides of a lot of other Vietnam veterans.” 
       Overstreet tapped Dr. Purvis on the shoulder. “Doc, approximately how much time does our perp have to live?” 
       “Impossible to determine, detective.” 
       “None, doc?” 
       “Well, depends on the severity of the symptoms.” 
       “For example.” 
       Dr. Purvis presented Overstreet with simple medical terminology. “If this subject suffers from severe circulatory or respiratory disorders, he could well be on his way out. If he’s suffering from some form of cancer, it could be a matter of weeks or months.” 
       “Carey and I are at the crossroads with catching this guy.” 
       “We’ve been outsmarted by someone who’s not done killing.” 
       The detective’s work of Carey and Overstreet was being put to the test. Big holes were punctured in their egos since the psychopath they’d been after was many steps ahead of them. 
  CHAPTER—30 
       Charlie had little knowledge about his neighbors Derrick and Mitchell being full-time employees with the Internal Revenue Service. The interracial gay couple actually held upper positions with the IRS. They also held one of the IRS’ murdered employees in high regards. A prayer vigil and dinner for Lisa Wallace had been scheduled for one o’clock in the main conference room. Pans of meats and pots of soups poured into the decorated room along with glass bowls of beverages and a host of delectable deserts. 
       Mitchell called the shots up in the customer service division while Derrick exercised his power with civility inside the data conversion and cashiers departments. Both gay men had gained the respect of most IRS employees. Derrick knew how to use his mouthpiece to gain the confidence of other employees from one end of the building to the other. Mitchell, on the other hand, sort of kept a low profile, but broke out of his shy mode whenever in the company of Derrick. 
       Mitchell and Derrick filed into the conference room with a woman who’d been born white on the outside, but surely had personality traits of a black woman. She’d been named Kathy Lowell by her mother. With an attractive rear end to match up against any black woman, unfortunately Kathy didn’t have the face to match. Deep red blotches covered every area of both cheeks and across her forehead. The dirty blonde hair didn’t compliment her lopsided head.  
       Derrick stepped closer and bumped up against her solid arched hips. “Hello Miss Cathy. How are you?”     
       “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Derrick Mitchell,” Kathy smiled, placing a pan of fried chicken at the middle of the table. 
       Derrick took a quick peek at her large bubble butt. “Well, if it isn’t the white girl with the black girl’s booty. Chile, I’ll tell you the truth, where’d you get a big booty like that?” 
       “You’ve got to ask my mother about that.” 
       “Or your daddy.” 
       “Or the both of them.” 
       Derrick leaned sideways to take another look. “Are you sure that you don’t have black in you?” 
       Kathy grunted with a coarse voice. “Honey, let me tell you one thing. I don’t know if I’ve got black in me, but I’ve definitely had black up in me.” 
       “Ha! Ha!” Derrick laughed. “In other words, you don’t have black blood in you, but you’ve had some black meat up in you. Is that what you’re telling me and Mitchell, Miss Kathy?” 
       “Yes sir.” 
       “No, it’s yes mam,” Derrick corrected her, a reminder he was gay. 
       “Sorry about that, mam.” 
       “You’re excused this time, ‘miss thing’.” 
       Kathy rolled her eyes over at Mitchell. “Mitchell, how does it feel to have some black meat up in you?” 
       Mitchell turned a mild red in the face after a hard snicker. “Uh, I must say that Derrick’s the greatest lover in the world.” 
       “In other words, ain’t nothing like some big black hard dick. C’mon Mitchell, don’t be ashamed to admit it. Doesn’t matter if you’re black or white, straight or gay, or if you’re young or old, having black dick is like having the keys to a bank vault.” 
       “Okay, okay, Derrick pleases me like no man or woman could ever do.” 
       “The pleasure withdrawals that you make on that long black meat is unlike anything in the world.” 
       In an era of countless interracial unions, especially between black men and white women, Kathy earned her PhD in interracial sexology. She had no shame in broadcasting to other IRS employees how she loved black men from the inside to the outside.  
       Even as a gay man, Derrick had enough courage to smack Kathy across both firm buttocks. “Girl, it’s this juicy ass of your’s that attracts black men to you.” 
       “Considering that black men are truly ‘ass men’, you’re telling the sho nuff truth.” 
       “Your ass is the bait that hooks them in.” 
       “Just like kryptonite makes Superman weak, a nice juicy ass weakens brothers.” 
       “And a few white men, too,” Derrick added, careful not to offend his longtime lover. 
       “Of course, there’re white men who can appreciate a woman with a nice ass.” 
       Derrick and Kathy talked explicitly before other IRS employees came to the conference room.  
       A strong comfort level existed between them.  
       Neither wanted to hurt the other’s feelings. Mitchell reached across the table for a fresh newspaper at the request of Derrick. 
       “Hey, Kathy, take a look at today’s paper,” Derrick said while capturing Kathy’s attention. 
       Kathy unfolded the paper. “Yikes! That’s what’cha call a ‘nightmare-of-a-face.” 
       Ironically, yet coincidentally, others who saw the face in person or in the newspaper, used the exact same expression. 
       “Yuckie is what I said, Kathy,” Derrick reiterated. “A face like that belongs on a monster from a creature-feature movie.” 
       How surprising it was for the same face printed up in the newspaper to belong to a mentally-disturbed, shell-shocked Vietnam Veteran who lived one flight up from Derrick and Mitchell? The caption across the front page read:  KCPD MAY HAVE SPOTTED SUSPECT IN BRUSH CREEK KILLINGS. 
       Mitchell flashed before Derrick a newspaper edition from the prior day. “Here’s another copy from yesterday talking about the bastard who might’ve chopped up and dumped Lisa down in Brush Creek.” 
       Kathy expeditiously read one line after another until she came to the bottom of the page. “Says that the cops and detectives might be closer to capturing the suspect in the Brush Creek killings. And to think, Lisa Wallace was one of those women.” 
       Being the sensitive creature he’d grown into, Mitchell smashed light tears from the corner of both eyes. “Lisa had to be one of the sweetest women ever put on this Earth.” 
       Derrick cried a few tears of his own. “I just don’t get it, she’d never hurt a flea, not to mention how she’d reach out to help anybody.” 
       “She’s gone on to a much better place.” 
       Kathy moved her eyes to the middle of the page. “Says here that the cops got into a scuffle with this maniac. Says that he killed their canine and got away through one of the tunnels down in Brush Creek.” 
       Derrick had some investigative thoughts of his own. Afterall, he and Mitchell did have a neighbor whose face’d been beaten up by life itself. The loving men did live below a man who worshipped the engineering marvel known as Brush Creek.  
       “If someone could get away with all of that, then they’ve got crazy skills.” 
       Kathy had some opinions of her own. “If you’re a native Kansas Citian, then you’d know something about Brush Creek. Those tunnels are filled with great big sewer rats, the kind of rats that would love to have anything for dinner. I wonder if he made it through that tunnel alive?” 
       “Good question, Kathy,” Derrick said in his analytical voice. “If he did make it, I’ll betcha he got bit by a thousand rats.” 
       “Enough rabies to carry around for the next one-hundred years.” 
      Derrick dangled his hand on the side of Kathy’s leg. “You talked about the ‘nightmare-of-face’ earlier. The craziest idea ever just popped up inside my head.” 
       “What idea?” 
       “There’s a guy who lives on the floor above Mitchell and I. This guy has a scarred and pitted face like you’ve never seen before.” 
       “You said that to say what, Derrick?” 
       Derrick sort of mumbled the answer. “Could there be a chance that he’s the suspect they’re looking for?” 
       “C’mon Derrick,” Kathy dejected. “How many guys do you know in this city with scarred and pitted faces? You can’t just go on someone with really bad skin.” 
       “Know what else?” 
       “What?” 
       “Inside this guy’s apartment, he’s got lots of framed posters and pictures of Brush Creek everywhere. Every inch of his walls are covered with something about Brush Creek.” 
       “Have you turned into Mr. Inspector-Detective on me?” 
       “Not at all, sweetheart. Nowadays, you can never tell. Remember the big flood down in Brush Creek back in 1977?” 
       “Sure, my mom and grandma talk about it all the time. I was only a little girl back then, but my relatives talk about it enough to make me feel as though I lived through it.” 
       “This guy that I’m telling you about, he’s about as weird as they come. He keeps all kinds of crazy hours, not to mention that he makes all kinds of crazy noises upstairs. Mitchell and I had to go up there a few times to make him quiet down.” 
       “Are you saying that he might be the Brush Creek Killer?” 
       “I’m not saying that at all,” Derrick reversed. “But this guy gives me the creeps everytime he’s in my presence.” 
       “Is it the nightmare-of-a-face?” 
       “The face is most of it.” 
       “What’s this guy’s name?” 
       “Charles Rastelli, but people call him Charlie.” 
       “The name doesn’t register.” 
       “The face probably wouldn’t register, either.” 
       Derrick and and Kathy knew time at the IRS crept upon you like patches of thick fog. The duo concentrated their efforts on preparing the dinner and prayer vigil for Lisa Wallace. 
  CHAPTER—31 
       Fresh white tablecloths were spread across the long tables inside the main IRS conference room. Employees from every department brought more pans of meats and casseroles and pots of soups. Tables set aside for soda and deserts were lined against the east wall. Balloons and glitter paper and banners bearing the name of “Lisa Wallace” stretched across the room. Employees came out in full force. From NTEU to data conversion to customer service, they came. From quality control to code and editing to extracting, they came.  
       From machine services to batching to exams, they came out, to pay homage to a dedicated IRS veteran who brought pride to the government agency. For the prayer vigil, white candles were brought in small boxes. Within minutes, the atmosphere shifted to standing room only. People stood shoulder-to-shoulder. If someone farted, everyone would’ve gotten a whiff of their sour insides. A long white cake was rolled inside and placed on the table in the middle of the room. The most recent photo of Lisa graced the center of the cake. 
       A woman who many IRS employees considered God himself, Dr. Barbara Bonnet, the same woman who ran the entire Kansas City Processing Service Center, made her entry up towards the stage. Dr. Bonnet was one of those conservative country girls, born and bred most of her life deep in the state of Texas, a proud graduate of Texas Southern University. Some sun and twenty pounds added to her cardboard figure would’ve done her grand. Maybe a fresh hairdo and a pair of stylish glasses would’ve brought her into modern times. A group of men and women from IRS service centers in Washington, D.C., Atlanta, Andover, Austin and Cincinnati flanked Dr. Bonnet up on stage.  
       Dr. Bonnet moved the microphone up to her thin red lips. “Good afternoon to all the IRS employees from here at the Kansas City Processing Service Center.” 
       A sea of inquisitive faces responded with their positive salutations.  
       Dr. Bonnet cleared a dry pocket from her throat. “It gives me great pleasure to see how all of you have come out to pay homage to our favorite daughter, Miss Lisa Wallace.” 
       The dedicated workers broke out into a mild applause. 
       “Let me begin by saying this,” Dr. Bonnet continued. “Here at the IRS, we are a community. We are like a family, a family who’s there for one another in the time of need. Lisa Wallace was a true family member of our’s. She remains our favorite IRS daughter, and it would be a crime against humanity to not honor her memory.” 
       Once again, the IRS employees responded with a civil applause. 
       “Lisa built a legacy here at the Internal Revenue Service,” Dr. Bonnet praised, then gulping down a swallow of water. “It’s been said that a person doesn’t leave a legacy behind by doing something to help themselves, but a person leaves a legacy behind when they do something to help others. Lisa Wallace left a legacy because she helped others.” 
       Derrick and Kathy stood towards the back of the room staring at Dr. Bonnet with eyes of disbelief. It wasn’t necessarily her oratorical skills which captivated them, but how her own personal legacy wasn’t admired by many at the IRS. 
       “How dare that tramp talk about leaving a legacy,” Derrick whispered into Kathy’s ear. “Isn’t she the same racist whore who had a small Confederate Flag in the back of her car window? Her only legacy is being a closet racist.” 
       “Having that flag in her back windshield was only a rumor,” Kathy repressed, whispering back into Derrick’s ear.  
       “A rumor confirmed by both black and white people here at the IRS,” Derrick added, his feminine side growing more sensitive. 
       “What you expect, Derrick, she’s from Texas.” 
       “A bigoted bitch from Texas.” 
       “I thought we were here to pay our respects to Lisa Wallace.” 
       “We are, but that pale bitch up at that podium is a phony-racist-whore. Like we said earlier, Lisa was a real sweetheart who wouldn’t hurt a flea. Lisa didn’t have a prejudice bone in her body, let alone in her heart and mind.” 
       “Then, let’s pay the tribute to her that she deserves. Let’s put all of our differences aside and listen to what Dr. Bonnet has to say.” 
       Derrick twitched his nose upwards. “Look at all those young black women being killed and dumped along Gillham Park.” 
       “Another body was found a couple’a days ago.” 
       “My point exactly,” Derrick said. “If Lisa was black, I’d be willing to betcha all the salt in the sea that Dr. Bonnet and a lotta others around here wouldn’t do anything to remember her.” 
       Kathy put a grimace on her face. “Derrick, don’t turn this whole thing into a race issue.” 
       “If it was a race issue, then I wouldn’t be with Mitchell. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me. So what he’s white, it was his heart that hooked me in.” 
       “Let’s listen to the rest of what Dr. Bonnet has to say.” 
       Derrick arrested his militant tirades about Dr. Bonnet being a closet racist to hear the rest of her speech. 
       “Lisa gave of her tireless dedication to the IRS,” Dr. Bonnet praised once again. “As a section chief within the data conversion branch, Lisa helped meet the Kansas City Processing Center’s timely and efficient deposit timeliness, refund timeliness, refund error rate, correspondence error rate, and productivity. As the section chief, her deposit error rates met one to one-point-two percent. Her refund timeliness met ninety-nine-point-two to ninety-nine-point-six percent. Her refund error rate only reached zero-point-two to zero-point-five percent. Let’s take a look at her productivity throughout the entire branch. Lisa met a target goal of sixty-thousand processed documents on a weekly basis, which occurred on a rolling twelve month basis. People, this is the work of a dedicated IRS soldier, a lady who made us look good not only in Kansas City, but the treasury headquarters in Washington, DC.” 
       Those powerful words of praise resonated strongly with the crowd. Everyone erupted into more rowdy applauses. Derrick couldn’t help but stare at Dr. Bonnet with piercing eyes of discontent. Yes, it was true he was happily involved with a gay white man, his lover and friend for life as far as he was concerned. No one could ignor the deep seeded racism which existed within the confines of the IRS. Dr. Bonnet held the ringleader title in Derrick’s mind. She took a couple of swallows of water and wiped her forehead. More employees stood outside the door to hear the moving speech of their service director. 
       “Alright, let’s look more at the dedicated professional Lisa was,” Dr. Bonnet spoke further, working the muscles in her uncharacteristic face. “She worked long hours to make the changes necessary to accommodate the millions of taxpayers. Though not directly responsible, Lisa was indirectly responsible for the one-hundred million taxpayers who received nearly one-hundred billion dollars to help them weather the economic downturn.” 
       With those last few words spoken, the sea of curious faces turned to stare at one another. Was one woman at one IRS processing center really responsible for one-hundred million taxpayers receiving almost one-hundred billion dollars? Was it the heavyhitters in Washington, D.C. who set examples for other Treasury Department employees around the country? 
       Dr. Bonnet moved closer to ending her moving speech. “It is with great admiration that we thank Lisa Wallace for her professionalism and hard work with implementing the Alternative Minimum Tax legislation, also better known as ‘AMT’, and the Economic Stimulus Payment program. Three years ago, over 900 million dollars in false refunds were claimed on tax returns. Over 70 million dollars worth were actually issued among those who filed. Lisa Wallace helped implement a lookout plan for patterns which seemed unusual. Through her sole efforts, we saw a decreased volume in fraudulent returns.” 
       One side of the conference room applauded with aggression. The other side applauded with lower morale. How could one woman be the savior for the entire IRS agency? 
       Derrick pulled Kathy closer  and emptied his thoughts into her head. “Dr. Bonnet is definitely full of shit, and most of the shit she’s talking about is a buncha lies. Lisa was one hellavu an employee, but she’s making her out to be the ‘Superwoman of the IRS’.” 
       The nosy bunch tried moving in on the conversation between Derrick and Kathy. 
       Kathy relayed her thoughts back to him. “Derrick, why can’t you let it go? Fact or fiction, we’re here to pay our respects to a woman who was beaten and mutilated and then dumped into Brush Creek.” 
       “Since when did Lisa implement the AMT legislation? Since when did her lookout plan decrease fraudulent tax returns? Why do you think the people on our side of the room hardly clapped?” 
       “Derrick, do I see that little green-eyed monster of envy coming out?” 
       “Not at all.” 
       “Then, just go along with the program.” 
       “Oh, I forgot that Dr. Bonnet was a liar. Oh yeah, and a racist, too, might I add.” 
       Kathy grinded her teeth and hissed. “God rest the soul of Lisa Wallace. Like yourself, I hardly care for any of these people in here. These bigoted bastards around the IRS are nothing but the scum of the Earth. As I stand here talking to you, the only thing on my mind is my old man fucking the living shit out of me with that long piece of juicy black meat.” 
       Derrick displayed a familiar grin. “Girl, you’ve got a license to be a fool.” 
       “I’ll bet Mitchell can’t wait for some of that black meat of your’s.” 
       “Honey, you’ve got that right.” 
       “Right now, something long, fat and black will serve me just right.” 
       “Girl, don’t make me come back to the other side.” 
       “They say that once you go black that you never come back.” 
       “Mitchell is a witness to that.” 
       “Is that right?” 
       Derrick and Kathy had more in common than they realized. 
       “Yes, honey, that’s absolutely right. White boys from everywhere have tried to take Mitchell away from me. They’ve learned the hard way that Mitchell likes his meat dark and well done.” 
       “And seasoned with all the right spices.” 
       “Kathy, with a big booty like your’s, you still make me wanna creep back to the other side. Afterwards, I’ll just creep back to the right side for good.” 
       Kathy shoved Derrick to gesture that Dr. Bonnet wasn’t finished with her speech. “Let’s listen to the rest of what Dr. Bonnet has to say.” 
       “In closing, I’d like to say these words of wisdom,” Dr. Bonnet pleasurably chirped. “Lisa Wallace believed that no mountain was too high. She believed that everyone should enjoy the view and the journey too. Thank you all for coming out to enjoy the life’s celebration of Miss Lisa Wallace.” 
       A rumbling applause sounded off around the entire conference room. Dr. Bonnet stepped off the stage to greet some of the well wishers. Derrick rolled his eyes at her as though she’d murdered his entire family. Philosophers believed how everyone made at least one enemy in their lifetime. Employees gravitated towards Dr. Bonnet like Moses coming to lead his people into the promised land.  
       The hungry bunch stampeded over to the tables of food. Plates begin to fill up with mounds of spaghetti, chicken, spinach and nacho dips, potato salad, coleslaw, hotdogs, hamburgers, pasta salad and bean soup. For deserts, more plates were filled up with cakes, cookies, brownies, pies, ice cream, and cobblers. The feeding frenzy among IRS employees with large appetites began! 
       Derrick spewed out more harsh scrutiny about other employees. “Now you see why these people around here weeble and wobble up and down the aisles. Everyday, they eat from the time they come into this place until time for them to leave.” 
       “Now Derrick, you were supposed to be nice,” Kathy said. “You said that you were done talking bad about people.” 
       “That was until all these fat people showed up.” 
       “You’re cruel.” 
       “You know I’m telling the truth. These people are fat from eating too much. They stay away from food, then maybe they’ll lose some weight.” 
       “Lighten up, Derrick.” 
       “Food to them should be like kryptonite to Superman.” 
       Dr. Bonnet eased her way through the tight crowd with a plate of food. Unexpectedly, she bumped into Kathy, who happened to be standing near the conference door.  
       “Good afternoon, Dr. Bonnet,” Kathy spoke with respect.  
       “Good afternoon to you, too,” Dr. Bonnet spoke back, the respect quite equal. 
       “Dr. Bonnet, have you heard anymore about the murder case involving Lisa Wallace?” 
       “A KCPD detective by the name of Jerry Overstreet said that he’d get back with the IRS and her family as soon as they got a crack in the case.” 
       “How long ago was that?” 
       “Several months now.” 
       “Did you read in the paper about the dog killed and the cops attacked down in Brush Creek?” 
       “Sure did,” Dr. Bonnet said distastefully. “There’s a psycho on the loose out there, and for everyone’s sake, I hope they catch him real soon.” 
       “I keep all my doors locked and make sure that both of my German Shepards keep a close watch around my house. It’s just not safe out there anymore.” 
       “You’re right, the world’s just not a safe place anymore, period.” 
       “Anytime someone kills a big German Shepard dog with his bare hands, and then turn around and beat up two trained KCPD cops, then he’s beyond insane.” 
       “The write-up in the paper also talked about him crawling through dark sewer tunnels infested with big giant rats.” 
       “Those were some nice words that you spoke about Lisa.” 
       “She’s most deserving of the praise.” 
       “She’ll be greatly missed around here.” 
       “Yes, she will.” 
       “We lost a very valued employee.” 
       Kathy did the unthinkable. She pulled Derrick closer to face the woman he literally despised. “Dr. Bonnet, this is a good friend of mine’s named Derrick Thomas. Derrick heads an elite team of managers in the data conversion branch.” 
       Dr. Bonnet locked unfavorable eye contact with Derrick. “Good afternoon to you, Derrick.” 
       Against his own strong will, he reciprocated. “Good afternoon to you, too, Dr. Bonnet.” 
       “You’re in the data conversion branch?” 
       “Yes, I am.” 
       “What a good job you guys are doing in that department.” 
       “Why, thank you.” 
       “Data conversion plays a big part in keeping uniformity and consistency going here at the processing center.” 
       Derrick felt big butterflies torturing his insides. The phoniness ate away at him like a mad cancer. “We surely try our best.” 
       “Well, keep up the good work.” 
       “Will do.” 
       Dr. Bonnet marched through the door with relief. Relief also came on Derrick’s behalf. Two dislikes could’ve never created a like.  
       Derrick wiped sweat from his forehead and said, “I’m so glad that that uppity white Texas whore is out of my sight. She just irks the living fuck out of me. And why did you have to stop and talk to that ugly, that pale, that square skinny bitch?” 
       “Is there a crime against me asking about Lisa Wallace?” 
       “No crime, whatsoever.” 
       “I’d was wanting to know if the police made any progress in catching the sicko who butchered her all up.” 
       “That woman, she just works my last good nerve!” 
       “Did you get your estrogen today?” 
       “Probably didn’t get enough of it.” 
       Derrick and Mitchell followed Kathy out of the conference room. All three carried plates of food and beverages in both hands. The prayer vigil for Lisa Wallace took place at the opposite end of the complex. 
  CHAPTER—32 
       Twenty-Five year old college graduate student Colleen Stone jogged through the well-manicured grasses and brushes of Gillham Park. Colleen didn’t mind embarking on her early morning jogs through the park along with her large pitbull named “Turbo”. The Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays fast approached. She knew the shedding of a few pounds would put her ahead of the big meals. The crisp morning air ejected long streams of misty breath from her mouth. Colleen also knew that being an attractive woman would put her at high risk.  
       The recent rash of women being killed raised her conscious to high levels. Turbo bolstered a firm muscle tone and a set of teeth strong enough to rip apart the hide on a cow. Hiding off in a cluster of bushes in complete silence was Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli. His set of menacing eyes watched Colleen and Turbo relay around the dirt trail several times. Charlie didn’t limit himself from committing grisly murders on totally innocent women. His thirst to murder and mutilate more females remained unquenchable. 
       Surprisingly, Turbo didn’t pick up Charlie’s scent from the thick brush. Charlie stood at a far enough distance to keep the dog from sniffing a trail leading to a human subject. The strange irony to him striking again was during the early morning hours. He did his best work in the late evening hours and well into the night.  
       This time, if he wanted to kill another canine, he’d have to contend with a strong pitbull. Turbo was much more vicious than the average dog. He’d have to deal with a dog locking his jaws around his arm. Colleen and Turbo jogged to the upper section of the trail. She made a gruesome discovery. 
       “Oh no!” Colleen shrugged, cupping her mouth in disgust. “There’s another black woman killed and dumped here in Gillham Park.” 
       Turbo started to behave strangely. Using his sharp canine senses, he spotted Charlie up in the bushes from about twenty yards away. 
       “Turbo, what’s wrong, boy?” Colleen asked, staring in the direction to where he barked. 
       Turbo could’ve barked his head and neck out of place. 
       “Who’s up there in the bushes?” 
       No one up in the bushes answered. Charlie didn’t move a single muscle from where he stood. 
       “Answer me, or I’ll turn my dog loose on you,” Colleen threatened, backing away from the badly-decomposed body. 
       Still, no one answered. Colleen used her strongest sense of sight to see who might’ve been hiding off in the bushes. She concentrated harder, and the side profile of the ugliest face, it came closer into focus.  
       “Who are you and what are you doing up there?” 
       Charlie refused to make any replies.  
       Turbo hungered to be turned loose and mangle his master’s would-be attacker. As Charlie turned to flee, Colleen caught a split-second view of his frightening face. She wasted no time getting on her cell phone to call for help. 
       “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the operated asked. 
        Nervously, Colleen said to the operator, “I’ve discovered a dead body here in Gillham Park.” 
       “Mam, could you please tell me your exact location in Gillham Park?” 
       “I’m close to the intersection of Brush Creek Boulevard and Gillham Avenue.” 
       “We’ll send out a unit.” 
       “Thank you.” 
       The response time for officers and detectives arriving at the scene was quite surprising. Carey Schroeder arrived rather promptly. The homicide division had more than their hands full since several Brush Creek murders hung high in the balances. Squad cars and a coroner’s van spurred nosy neighbors from along Gillham Avenue to come out on their porches. Dead bodies found in Gillham Park was commonplace. Over a course of twenty-five years, enough bodies to create a makeshift cemetery were scattered along the legendary park. 
       Carey made a shot straight for Colleen since he knew she’d made the discovery. “Mam, I’m homicide detective Carey Schroeder with the KCPD. How are you doing this morning?” 
       Colleen had calmed down since discovering the decomposed body. “Other than finding the black woman dead in the grass, my morning was going just fine.” 
       “What is your name?” 
       “Colleen Stone.” 
       “When did you first notice the body?” 
       “Must’ve been after jogging through the trail with my dog a few times.” 
       “I see you’ve got your dog trained real well.” 
       “Turbo only attacks on command.” 
       “How’d you react after finding the body?” 
       “After first, the woman looked like she was lying there sleeping. I’m originally from New York, and I’m quite used to seeing people sleeping outside on sidewalks and in parks.” 
       “So, bodies lying on the ground is nothing new to you.” 
       “That’s right, detective,” Colleen gulped. “As I looked closer, I noticed she was naked except for her white shirt covering part of her chest. To be honest, I didn’t know if it was a man or a woman, with the person being so strongly built and all.” 
       “Were you and your dog the only ones here around the park?” 
       “Yes we were.” 
       “You sure about that?” 
       A sudden jolt struck Colleen. “Know what, detective? There happened to be a man hiding up in the bushes.” 
       “Did you get a good look at him?” 
       “When I threatened to turn my dog on him, he stood still for about a minute. Then, he ran further off into the bushes. I must’ve caught a split-second glimpse of what he looked like.” 
       “In a few short words, using your own personal description, how did he look?” 
       “It all happened so fast, but he looked like he’d been scarred up in the face. Looked like he might’ve gone through a severe acne problem.” 
       “Could you wait here a second?” 
       “Sure can.” 
       Carey went to his car and brought back a leather binder filled with papers.  
        He produced a composite sketching of someone the KCPD had desperately wanted to capture. 
       “Mam, did he look anything like this guy?” Carey asked Colleen, his hopes built up high. 
       Colleen took less than a minute to make her assessment. “Like I said, detective, the glimpse I got was for only a split-second. But it’s possible that he could’ve looked like this drawing.” 
       “Are you sure?” 
       “Beyond positive.” 
       “Are you aware that the person in this drawing might be linked to both of the Brush Creek murders?” 
       “No, I wasn’t aware of that.” 
       “We’ve worked long days in trying to apprehend this suspect.” 
       “Could he be the same guy who killed the police canine down in Brush Creek, and then jumped a couple’a you all’s police officers?” 
       “So, you did see the story on the news or read about it in the newspaper?” 
       “The story flooded the airwaves for several days. And rightfully so, since a maniac’s on the loose.” 
       Carey rested his hand across Colleen’s shoulder. “Mam, you could’ve easily been his next victim.” 
       “Not with Turbo by my side,” Colleen assured Carey. “My dog has been trained to kill the enemy. He’s been trained to rip away at flesh and bite off arms.” 
       “Him being stashed away in the bushes, you were definitely a candidate for his next victim. Serial killers are wise with their time and usually stalk their victims before making their move. I’ll bet he’s been watching you come to park every morning with your dog for your daily jog.” 
       “Detective, you don’t think my pitbull could’ve stopped this guy?” Colleen second-guessed. 
       “He killed one of our canine units, why couldn’t he kill your dog?” 
       “Wasn’t your canine a German Shepard?” 
       “One of the largest, strongest dogs we had in the unit.” 
       “Maybe you’ve got a good point.” 
       Carey jotted down a few notes. “Do you work or go to school around here?” 
       “I’m a grad student up at UMKC.” 
       “Your major?” 
       “Marketing and finance.” 
       “Great field to go into.” 
       Ducking under the crime scene tape which stretched around the perimeter near the slain body was Lieutenant Overstreet. As always, he nursed a warm cup of freshly-brewed coffee from a local convenience store. “What we got here, Carey?” 
       “Black female, possible late twenties, body discovered by a jogger who goes out on early morning jogs with her dog.” 
       “No positive identification?” 
       “Not at the time.” 
       “Any of the neighbors talking?” 
       “Nah, not even the nosy ones.” 
       “You talk to the jogger?” 
       “Got a bit of information out of her.” 
       “Like what?” 
       “Said she stumbled upon the body after running a few times around the park trail.” 
       “Anything else?” 
       Carey heisted his shoulders and said, “Well, Jerry, she said she saw some creepy looking guy standing up in the bushes.” 
       “She get a good look at him?” 
       “Said she only got a split-second glimpse of him. But, check this out, Jerry, she said his face looked like it’d been ravaged by acne.” 
       Overstreet snapped his fingers. “He’s got to be the same psycho who slaughtered those two women found in Brush Creek.” 
       “Also, the same scumbag who attacked Richie and Seth around the tunnel in Brush Creek.” 
       “The black women who’ve been turning up dead here in Gillham Park.” 
       “What about them?” 
       “Is there a possibility he could be responsible for killing some of these women?” 
       “I doubt it.” 
       “Why?” 
       “I don’t know, but Doc McKinnis could help answer our questions.” 
       Ask and one shall receive. Master medical examiner, Dr. Anthony McKinnis, arrived at the crime scene from just the mentioning of his name. Dr. McKinnis trotted up the dirt trail carrying his well-supplied forensic kit, along with his helpers from the forensic crime lab.  
       “Good morning, detectives,” Dr. McKinnis acknowledged with a spirited smile. 
       “Morning, doc,” Overstreet replied, coating his voice with the warm coffee. 
       “Came as soon as the department dispatched me.” 
       “Another body found here in the park.” 
       “Bodies are turning up here in Gillham Park more and more.” 
       “Killers are more clever than we give them credit.” 
       Dr. McKinnis slipped on a pair of latex gloves and went to work. With the body mainly nude, he observed a series of burns and lesions along her legs and arms and upper torso. Detectives snapped closeup and distance shots of the body. The sight wasn’t pretty at all. A woman who’d been abused most of her teen and adult life, caused the doctor and the detective’s more sensitive side to surface. He turned her head to face him and then swung his head to the side. 
       “Doc, what’s wrong?” Overstreet asked, moving closer to the body. 
       “Well, detective, our vic was suffocated to death after mud was forced down her throat.” 
       Carey and Overstreet moved even closer. They noticed the compacted mud and debris spilling out of her mouth. Soft beats thrusted their hearts into neutral. Nobody deserved to die in such a harsh way.  
       Dr. McKinnis pointed to a dark area on the woman’s face. “Looks like our vic was struck in the face with a blunt object.” 
       “Hammer, stick, pole, or maybe a big rock or something?” 
       “Take your pick, one or all of them.” 
       “These sickos become more brutal with time.” 
       Dr. McKinnis pointed individually to the many cuts and scrapes up and down her body. “Also, looks like she’d been stabbed a few times with a knife or razor or other sharp object several times. I’d say that she suffered a lot of abuse over the course of her life.” 
       “Any guess to how long her body’s been lying in the park?” 
       “My guess is anywhere from a few days to a week.” 
       “After your autopsy, doc, I need to know if she’d been sexually assaulted before she was murdered.” 
       “Absolutely, detective.” 
       “Can we meet you in the morgue in a couple’a days?” 
       “Sure can, detective.” 
       “Thanks, doc.” 
       Carey and Overstreet drifted further along the park’s dirt trail. For several minutes, they searched for any helpful clues. One of the lesser experienced detectives signaled for them to come to where he stood. 
       “That’s rather unusual, Jerry,” Carey said, itching to catch a monster killer with a high IQ and thirst to kill. 
       Overstreet slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He reached down to pick up a dark blue purse made of shiny pleather material. Digging around the contents, he discovered a makeup compact, some condoms, a medical card, and a Missouri identification card. 
       “Won’t be hard making a positive id on this woman.” 
       “Makes our job a little more simpler.” 
       “Carey, make sure these contents get to the crime lab.” 
       “Sure thing, Jerry.” 
       “Yeah, and make sure homicide does a thorough check on our vic. Maybe we can get some leads on what happened to all the vics found dead here in Gillham Park, maybe even our two vics found in Brush Creek. I’m gonna do a brief interview with the woman who came upon the body before we wrap up this crime scene.” 
       “I’ll let ya know what I find out, Jerry.” 
       “Great.” 
       A homicide detective’s work was never done. 
       Overstreet received a growl from Turbo as he approached Colleen holding a pen and notepad. “Mam, I’m Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD’s homicide division. I know that you were interviewed by Detective Schroeder, but I’d like to ask you more detailed questions about the man you saw hiding up in the bushes.” 
       “Go right ahead, detective,” Colleen submitted, holding a tight grip around Turbo’s leash. 
       “His face, you did get a good glimpse of his face?” 
       “I did, but it was lightning quick.” 
       “Would you recognize him if you ever saw him again?” 
       “I would, and he looked like he’d been stabbed in the face with an icepick.” 
       “Like a nightmare-of-a-face?” 
       “Very good description, detective.” 
       Overstreet slipped out a folded-up piece of white paper. “Did he look anything like this composite drawing?” 
       Colleen scrutinized the drawing. “Detective, there’s some resemblance between what I saw and the drawing you’re holding.” 
       “Would you put it on the soul of your parents?” 
       “Yes, I would.” 
       “And he ran away when you spotted him?” 
       “Yes he did. When my dog Turbo barked wildly at him, he knew that it was time to get the hell away from the park.” 
       “Would you have turned your dog on him had he come closer?” 
       “No doubt.” 
       “It’s good that you had your dog with you, or you might’ve been his next victim.” 
       “I’ve been warned about this area by many people. Any sane person would go through this park with some type of protection.” 
       “Mam, I do thank you for your time and your cooperation.” 
      “You’re welcome, detective.” 
       Overstreet directed his staff to finish processing the crime scene and get all the pertinent evidence to the crime lab. The body was shipped off to the morgue, and now the KCPD only hoped for clues to lead them to the psychotic animal who exclusively killed women for sport. 
  CHAPTER—33 
       Detectives Overstreet and Schroeder decided to meet in one of the upper-floor offices inside the forever busy KCPD headquarters building in downtown. Two days following the discovery of the brutalized nude body in Gillham Park, the duo decided to put their heads together. They had to come up with a plan to apprehend the man who murdered women without just cause. Both men were two tired souls. Their detective work started affecting their home life. Their wives complained constantly about them not spending time with them or their children. 
       As for Overstreet, he had already put two sons and a daughter through college. His children had their own children to defend for, and he barely got a chance to see his grandchildren since all of them lived outside Missouri. On the other hand, Carey was the budding father of four young children, two girls and two boys whose ages ranged from three years old to twelve years old. Carey’s wife, in particular, got frustrated with cooking dinner and him not showing up on time to eat with his family. 
       Regrettably, both detectives took their work dead serious. Their home life suffered tremendously as a result of them wanting to bring down a cold and calculated serial killer. Overstreet thumbed through a number of papers inside his cluttered office. It bothered both men on how someone kept killing and not getting caught.  
       “Tell me something, Jerry,” Carey said, his fingers crossed in suspense. “Do you link the last vic found in Gillham Park with both our vics found in Brush Creek?” 
       “None of those murders are mine’s to link,” Overstreet specified. “But the DNA found in Brush Creek doesn’t match up with anything found in Gillham Park.” 
       “There could be some commonalities between the two, but we can’t say that one suspect is responsible for every last one of the murders.” 
       “Doc McKinnis told us at the crime scene that the vic found in Gillham Park had been beaten and suffocated to death. All those other black women found murdered in Gillham Park were also been beaten and killed by some sonofabitch shoving mud and twigs and granule rocks down their throats. Some of them had been raped and sexually molested before he’d killed them.” 
       “When compared with our vics found dismembered in Brush Creek, the method of killing is totally different.” 
       “Which says that we’re dealing with two separate killers who’re committing murders within close proximity.” 
       “Exactly!” Carey bolted. “The Brush Creek killer and the Gillham Park killer have no connection, whatsoever. It’s by coincidence that they’re operating within the same vicinity with no knowledge of one another.” 
       Detective work was never easy. But the rewards came into fruition whenever they brought down the people who took innocent lives. 
       Overstreet flipped open a file with detailed information about the latest Gillham Park murder victim. “Our latest vic was identified as Marsha Penn, twenty-six year old black female, stood five-foot-three, weighed approximately a hundred and thirty pounds. Had several convictions for prostitution which spanned for many years. She did time in Lansing for forging checks and tampering, and completed to the tenth grade.” 
       “It’s pretty much the same story for all the other women found in Gillham Park.” 
       “The sashlike cloth dangled over her stomach, what did the lab say about that?” 
       “No DNA found on it.” 
       “The white sock found hanging on the bush branch, what about that?” 
       “Nothing to give us any clues.” 
       “Doc McKinnis showed me how all those Gillham Park murders have similarities. Question is, would a killer go from mutilating women and dumping them down in Brush Creek, to raping women and then suffocating them with mud and debris? And my answer to that would be hell-to-the-fucking-no.” 
       “I’d have to agree with you, Jerry. How about the prostitute who worked Independence Avenue who’d been found mutilated down in Brush Creek? Or the sweet, innocent IRS worker with saintly qualities found chopped up in trashbags down in Brush Creek?” 
       “To think, Seth and Richie, along with one of the unit’s best canines, coming within inches or seconds of catching this puke.” 
       “Jerry, chills come over me everytime I think about our perp. With the things he’s done and gotten away with, it makes me believe that we’re dealing with someone who’s not human, someone who’s not of this world.” 
       Yes, Charlie wasn’t your typical average human being. 
       Overtreet pounded the top of his desk. His emotions kicked into overdrive. “Of this world or not, when we finally catch up with this savage, and I know that we eventually will, I’m going to hang him upside down by his balls with my bare hands. I’m going to beg the chief of police, the mayor of this city, the governor of this state, even the President of the United States, to either re-instate the gas chamber or the electric chair for this sonofavitch. I want to see his body being fried with volts of electricity or his lungs being poisoned inside one of those old gas chambers. I have an elderly mother, I have a loving, caring, and supporting wife, I have a beautiful young daughter, I have little adorable granddaughters, and I have wonderful nieces. These are all female counterparts in my immediate and not so immediately family that I love dearly. To think, it could be one of them who’d fall victim to the Brush Creek and Gillham Park killers.” 
       This time, like every other time, Overstreet took matters very personal. Going around killing women, even the not so innocent women, angered him to the point of taking justice into his own hands. Only cowards abused and mistreated women. Only cowards murdered women for their sick, selfish pleasures. Only cowards raped and assaulted helpless women. Overstreet could’ve cared less about receiving honorable mention for apprehending a sicko who killed for sport or vengeance. Getting those beasts off the street and behind bars stayed at the top of his priority list. 
       “But, I’m sure that none of your female relatives would put themselves in jeopardy to be raped, assaulted, or killed,” Carey reassured his superior. 
       “Sometimes, all the precautionary measures in the world can’t stop these coldblooded killers from taking human lives.” 
       “That I’d have to agree with.” 
       “Anymore information on Lisa Wallace from the IRS?” 
       “Went back and talked with their service director, but she had no more information from the time that you went and visited the place.” 
       “Kimberly Barr from off Independence Avenue, any further information about her?” 
       “Interviewed everyone several times up and down the avenue, but everybody’s singing the same tune over and over.” 
       “Doc McKinnis has given us the closest leads we have so far. The Brush Creek killer is definitely a Vietnam Veteran. Only somebody who’s got traces of Agent Orange in their blood did time in Vietnam. Both bodies found in those trashbags were dismembered with a Full Tang Monster Machete, the kind used during the war to chop through those jungles.” 
       “Piece those two together, you come up with a war psycho who’s come home to be a killer.” 
       “Psychologically damaged from the war.” 
       Carey joined strong eye contact with Overstreet. They studied one another on a commending level. “The odds of this psycho slipping up, what are they, Jerry?” 
       “Good, maybe not so good.” 
       “Or maybe as good as one of us getting struck by lightning ten times in the same area.”  
       “He’s got to slip up at one point or another.” 
       “Let’s hope that it’s not before he’s done killed more people.” 
       Overstreet and Carey had to pool their resources together with the rest of the KCPD to hopefully meet up with a killer endowed with clever instincts. 
  CHAPTER—34 
       Crime Scene Investigators painstakingly collected more evidence from the scene involving police officers Richard Dolan and Seth Jacobson and the canine Bruno. Lab workers determined similar results. The maniac who attacked both officers carried blood inside his body tainted with Agent Orange. Overstreet suggested to his superiors to do a cross-section of all Vietnam Veterans living in both Kansas City, Missouri and Kansas City, Kansas. The KCPD wanted to see if a trail could lead them to their killer. 
       Doing a cross-section of all Vietnam Veterans from both sides of the Missouri River sounded like a silly idea at first. Narrowing it down to one man required too many resources and manpower. The chief of police complained about city hall jerking on their coats about not staying within their budget limits. City and state funds didn’t pour in like they wished. Human lives were more important than worrying about pinching every nickel and dime filling up law enforcement coffers. 
       A special burial service had been set aside for the slain police canine known as Bruno. After all, Bruno was just as important as the police personnel walking around on two legs. The four- legged creature was honored by his constituents. A gravesite funded by private donors was the final resting place of Bruno. Office Seth Jacobson watched as his precious partner was being covered with layers of dirt. Flanking him at the site were Overstreet, Carey, and Richard Dolan. A soft spot in their hearts were deeply touched by Bruno’s death. 
       “You know, guys, I’m going to miss that dog,” Seth eulogized with pampered words.  
       “Everyone in the department’s going to miss him,” Richard added, showing his strong emotional side. 
       “His service to the department will always be respected,” Overstreet said, sipping from a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. 
       “Bravery is the best word to describe him,” Carey said, doing whatever to console Seth. 
       Seth watched as the cemetery staff leveled off the last layer of dirt. “Guys, Bruno had the best personality. He loved to go to work and was damn good at what he did.” 
       Richard murmured and said, “If only we knew what kinda psycho we were dealing with, we wouldn’t’ve never sent Bruno into that tunnel after him.” 
       “That’s just it, we didn’t know what type of true monster we were dealing with.” 
       “To think, a canine dog, two police officers, and a chopper, all those still weren’t enough to stop that sonofavitch.” 
       “Our goddamned perp isn’t of this world.” 
       “Going through that tunnel, I just know that he had to fight with a lot of big rats.” 
       “You think Vietnam might’ve taught him how to escape dogs and police officers?” 
       “It’s a big chance that his military training did a lot for his survival skills.” 
       Overstreet waved his finger through the air. “I’m gonna go back to the chief and ask him to let us cross-section Vietnam Vets all across the city. Also, I’m gonna ask him to get a court order so we can subpoena some records from the VA Hospital here in Kansas City. We possibly can get permission to subpoena records from Washington. Guys, we’ve got to catch this killer and catch him as soon as possible. Like Seth said, how many men can dance their way around two skilled officers, a well-trained canine, and the best air unit that the department has to offer?” 
       “Jerry’s right, guys,” Carey imposed. “Our streets are gonna be littered with more dead bodies. More of the vics being found on the streets are women, the ones who are the most weak and vulnerable. Something’s gotta be done about this sicko who’s going around killing for pleasure.” 
       “The VA Hospital could possibly lead us straight to our suspect.” 
       “Think they can tell us which veterans are living with Agent Orange, opposed to the ones who don’t have a trace of it in their blood?” 
       “Should be able to.” 
       “Did the lab tell you how much concentration of it that he had in his blood?” 
       “Couldn’t give me an exact content.” 
       Seth posed a question to Overstreet. “But Jerry, doesn’t that crap start eating up their insides after awhile?” 
       “Like maggots feasting on rotten flesh.” 
       “Shouldn’t we be asking, how long does he have to live?” 
       “Nobody knows that.” 
       “Another question should be, will we get to him before the Agent Orange does?” 
       “Still, nobody knows that.” 
       “With good medication and treatment, some guys have been known to live many years after they’ve come back from Vietnam with Agent Orange.” 
       “If this guy dies on us, then all of our police and detective work will go straight down the drain.” 
       Richard Dolan had some input of his own. “My balls are itching to catch that bastard, especially after what he did to me and Seth that night down in Brush Creek.” 
       Seth conjured up a giggle. “Yeah, it’s an insult to our honor as police officers. I think after he’s caught, the courts should turn him over into our jurisdiction. The law should let us serve him the punishment the way we see fit.” 
       “Now that would be sweeter than butter pecan pie topped with hot chocolate syrup.” 
       “Please don’t tease my sweet tooth at a time like this.” 
       “I’m starting to believe that he’s making all of us look like idiots.” 
       “We keep up all the hard work, it’ll all pay off in the end, and we’ll know that our day did come.” 
       Richard swung his head back “Jerry, you’ve been doing detective work for a lot of years. Answer this question for me if you can.” 
       “Go ahead and shoot.” 
       “The black woman found in Gillham Park the other day. Do you think our Brush Creek killer had anything to do with her murder?” 
       “Seriously, I doubt it.” 
       “Why?” 
       “The DNA patterns don’t match up.” 
       “Did forensics confirm that?” 
       “First, both women found in Brush Creek were white. They were killed and dismembered and then stuffed into trashbags before being dumped down into Brush Creek. Let’s look at the Gillham Park murders. The eleven black women found in the park were partially nude and were suffocated with mud and tree branches. Some were found stabbed after their attacker had raped and molested them.” 
       “Are you saying that the Brush Creek killer is just starting his killing career?” 
       “It’s exactly what I’m saying.” 
       “Could you also be saying that our perp who’s been going around killing the black women in Gillham Park is black himself?” 
       “It’s quite a strong possibility.” 
       “Our streets have become a killing field.” 
       “We can’t let these homicides turn into cold cases.” 
       “Unless the chief and city hall give us the resources we need, these cases could turn as cold as the polar ice caps.” 
       “Which’ll give our perp a serious hard on.” 
       “You find out anything new, then let me know.” 
       “Will do.” 
       Detectives Overstreet and Schroeder, along with officers Richard Dolan and Seth Jacobson, were fully aware how they’d been faced with the biggest challenge of their law enforcement careers. 
  CHAPTER—35 
       For the vigilant women of S.A.V.E., human life transcended beyond racial and economical backgrounds. A special vigil organized by the Sisters Against Violent Encounters brought out more than a hundred women from all four corners of the city. From the elite suburbs of Johnson County to the harshest ghettos of Jackson County, women came out in full force to show their support. Those belonging to the female persuasion were sick and tired of men killing women simply for sport. 
       Nothing personal against men, but the crowd of mainly militant lesbians not only showed up to voice their own opinions, but to be a voice for the slain women who’d been dumped into non-descript areas like toxic waste. The one-hundred plus strong crowd gathered around the Gillham Park Fountain holding small white candles in cardboard holders. Women of different races stood and sat quietly around the concrete steps of the fountain. The saddest faces ever projected did nothing to spruce up any optimism. 
       Standing at the forefront of the fountain steps was the sponsor of the vigil. A loud microphone-speaker system and a podium were set up for Sandy Barnholtz to speak.       
       Sandy looked out amongst the crowd and felt their concern and grief. “First, thank you all for coming out to show your support. I think we are showing our communities what women can do when they unite. We as women, whether black, white, red, brown or yellow, we must say ‘no’ to acts of violence. Women, you do not have to be silent.” 
       An enormous applause pumped up the quiet crowd. A sudden adrenalin rush brought the angry women to life. 
       “Women, you don’t have to be victims,” Sandy continued while adjusting the microphone. “The Brush Creek killings, the Gillham Park killings, anyone with information should come forward. We’re looking at an overall attack on the dignity of women.” 
       Again, the intensity amongst the women shot up another level.  
       Standing a few yards in the brown Fall grass, wearing a KC Royals baseball hat with dark shades, was Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli, the very monster responsible for both of the Brush Creek mutilations. Killers like him were quite clever. Memories between him and Sandy were far from being buried. He’d only hope she didn’t recognize him, even with the baseball cap and dark shades disguising his appearance. 
       “Help us by coming forward,” Sandy enforced with her words of plea. “We’re putting out a call to all communities for help. Someone knows who is strangling black women here around Gillham Park and dumping the bodies. Someone knows who killed and dismembered two women found floating in trashbags down in Brush Creek. These animals, these creeps, these monsters, they’ve got no regard for human life at all.” 
       Thunderous applauses and loud cheers brought the crowd to meteoric heights.  
       Charlie stood there as Sandy injected the crowd with venomous rhetoric. She’d become like a poisonous serpent. She sunk her fangs into the crowd and watched them surrender their full support. Blood boiled on the inside of Charlie like steaming hot kettles. He had regrets like any other killer. Not completing his mission of killing Sandy ate away at his psychotic ego. 
       “We’re not getting a lot of assistance,” Sandy pressed on. “The killing is getting so far out of hand, until our city’s been the recent topic of national news coverage. We need to run down leads and locate witnesses willing to talk. At this time, I’d like to open our prayer vigil to questions and concerns.” 
       The microphone was passed to a black woman who stood facing Gillham Road. “Miss Barnholtz, what is the name of the organization that you represent?” 
       “The group is called S.A.V.E., which is an acronym for Sisters Against Violent Encounters.” 
       “As a single black woman with two young daughters, what can I do to protect them from this killer who’s been terrorizing black women?” 
       Sandy dug deep inside for a plausible answer. “All communities should come together and double our efforts to have these killers captured. Take precaution when you’re out, especially at night. Carry mase, a stun gun, maybe even a firearm. Afterall, you do have the right to bear arms when you’re not a felon. Take self-defense classes. Always be aware of your surroundings.” 
       Sandy shot off some good advice to all the women attendees. Their ears were open wider than the Hoover Dam. By no coincidence, Charlie was the only man stashed away in the crowd of women. Some of them took offense to him attending the ‘all woman’ prayer vigil. 
       Try as he might, his ‘nightmare-of-a-face’ couldn’t be fully concealed.  
       Some of the women moved away from him after they looked upon the hideous pits that covered his entire face. 
       Another black woman moved to the front so her voice was heard. “These black women were found beaten and naked. Their killer wants to be downright lowdown and dirty. He wants to shove mud and sticks and rocks down their throats. He wants to beat up on them and probably thinks it’s funny. Not’a one of these murders have been solved.” 
       Sandy pointed to her immediate right. “We’re having very little success in getting people to talk. Brush Creek and Gillham Park are within the same vicinity. The killer of the black women around Gillham Park, and the killer of the two white women found mutilated down in Brush Creek, they’re very cold in their attacks on women of any race. The KCPD have told us over and over that they’re calculated with their method of killing.” 
       Yet another black woman thrusted to the forefront to be heard. “Don’t wanna conjure up race issues, but both white women found dismembered down in Brush Creek, more news and newspaper attention were given to them than all the black women found dead around Gillham Park. I’m led to believe that white people believe that black people don’t count at all.” 
       Sandy motioned in absolute disagreement. “Black or white, these women were someone’s sister, someone’s daughter, someone’s granddaughter, someone’s mother, someone’s aunt. In my eyes, all of their lives were valuable.” 
       Whispering to himself, Charlie unregrettably said, “None of those bitches’ lives had value.” 
       Charlie must’ve given off mixed signals that he possessed dangerous tendencies. Women standing close to him stepped further away. This surely escalated his anger. Remaining non-descript amongst the women was a must. 
       A third black woman weaved forward to be heard. “Okay, we all know that the black women found dead in Gillham Park were involved with drugs and prostitution. But one of the white women found in Brush Creek was tied to drugs and prostitution along Independence Avenue.” 
       “Sweetheart, death knows no color,” Sandy emphasized. “No matter what lifestyles these women led, they didn’t deserve to die in the manner they did. We’re here for one another, and our main purpose is to help the police catch these desensitized animals.” 
       Charlie trembled as though he’d been stung by a giant hornet. How dare a lesbian like Sandy call him a desensitized animal. Every word of it was true. Her words hit very close to home. Vicious overtones bounced off him. They’d been felt by the women within close radius.  
       “We’ve got to work with the police and with one another!” Sandy said with reinforcement. “We’re not going to stand for another woman being raped, beaten, or killed. Either we stand together as one, or we’ll die separately. Thank you for coming out to show your support for this prayer vigil.” 
       Sandy stepped away from the podium. A quick head rotation led her eyes in the direction of the only man in the all-woman crowd. The face looked very familiar. The features on the badly-scarred face rocketed her mind into the not-so-distant past. No doubt, it was the same monster she spoke of during her speech. The sick bastard who brutally murdered her precious dog Bolo. Sandy’s lover, Carol Wexler, walked side-by-side with her as they approached their car.  
       “Carol, don’t think I’m crazy,” Sandy cued to Carol. “But the guy standing over there in Royals cap with the dark shades on, he looks like the same motherfucker who killed Bolo, the same bastard who tried to attack me that night down in Brush Creek.” 
       Carol looked around until she spotted the subject. “Who, the guy in the faded jeans and the grey sweater?” 
       “Yes, the one walking towards Forty-Third Street.” 
       The crowd of women had already dispersed.  
       The candles were almost burned out. 
       “First of all, why is he wearing those dark shades this late at night? Second of all, why was he the only guy here at our prayer vigil? And third, are you sure that might be him?” 
       “Do you notice the deep acne pits in his face?” 
       “Somewhat, but it’s nighttime and he’s kinda at a distance.” 
       “I’m telling ya, Carol, I believe it’s him.” 
       “He fits the same profile as the guy you saw down in Brush Creek?” 
       “The exact same profile!” Sandy jolted with assurance. “If my memory serves me right, he told me that his name was Charlie.” 
       “Yeah, he looks like a Charlie.” 
       Sandy conjured up a level of bravery. Within an instant, she moved towards him with swift feet. “Hey, Charlie, is that you?” 
       The man she recognized far too well rushed up a dark side street. Sandy followed him with insanely hot pursuit. “Hey, Charlie, you’re the sonofabitch who killed my dog Bolo, then tried to rape and kill me! Aren’t you the same motherfucker!” 
       Neighbors in the Hyde Park area looked out their windows and came out on their porches. Her voice carried through the wood and concrete layers of their houses. Finally, those old retired people got some action along their street, with none of it being lethal in nature.  
       Sandy shifted from a swift walk to an aggressive jog. “Hey, Charlie, you’re the filthbag who killed and chopped up those two women down in Brush Creek! Aren’t you, you lowlife sonofabitch?” 
       While Sandy chased after Charlie, Carol did some chasing of her own. Sandy was the only special woman she had left in her life. Losing her to an insensitive maniac like Charlie was the last tragedy she needed in her life.  
       The foot pursuit mounted to heated levels. Charlie ran faster and faster while his urine bag juggled around his old bodily fluids. Sweat moistened his face and soaked his upper body from under the warm fleece. He pumped out heavy spurts of breath. Sandy accelerated her pace by coming within close range of her one-time attacker.  
       “Charlie! Charlie! You can’t keep running forever! You bastard, just give it up and turn yourself in.” 
       Carol built up enough speed to come within inches of Sandy. She grabbed her by the middle of her jacket. “Have you literally lost your mind!”    
       Sandy came to a complete stop. “Carol, he’s the scumbag who killed Bolo. He’s the dirtbag who tried to rape and kill me. Why are you stopping me from catching him, babe? Why?” 
       Carol paused for a quick breather. “What I’m trying to do is keep myself from going to your funeral. Have you forgotten that he might be the same psychotic-sicko who made mince meat out’a those two women they found in trashbags down in Brush Creek? What makes you think he won’t do the same thing to you?” 
       “Babe, at this point, I just don’t give a fuck anymore.” 
       “Furthermore, are you one-hundred percent sure he’s the exact guy?” 
       “Sure I’m sure,” Sandy nodded, followed by stronger huffs and puffs.  
       “Alright, what if he had a pistol or a knife on him?” 
       “Still, at this point, I just don’t give a good goddamned anymore.” 
       “Honey, don’t let your ignorance put you six feet under.” 
       “Everytime I think of Bolo, I think of what he did to him.” 
       “Okay, what if you would’ve caught this creep and he wasn’t the same person?” 
       “Then, I would’ve apologized and called it a night.” 
       “Besides, you still haven’t gone to the police and told them what happened that night down in Brush Creek. You and I both agreed that it was part of your civic duty to march right into police headquarters and tell them everything.” 
       “Can you believe the nerves on that mentally-endowed maniac? He had the nerves to show up at one of our biggest prayer vigils. I’m telling you, Carol, it was definitely him.” 
       “Next time, don’t go running after some complete stranger unless you know for sure he’s the one. And please have some protection on you.” 
       “I will, babe, I will.” 
       Sandy and Carol walked back down the dark street and took off in their car. 
  CHAPTER—36 
       Derrick and Mitchell were masters at shedding the woes of IRS politics. The snitches from other departments worked their last good nerves. The low level employees did everything outside of reasoning to move themselves up the IRS ladder. Screw every snitching bastard who ever worked near or right beside them. Give them enough leverage and they created their own demise. But the loving couple found solace at one of Kansas City’s most popular gay nightclubs. Missy D’s was the name of this joint. The gays came to let it all loose. 
       Any gay person who was somebody could be found on Friday and Saturday nights at Missy D’s. The place jumped like a bin of doped up chickens. The rules were relatively clear. No drugs or weapons. No fighting or harassing other patrons. No drinks carried outside the club. No soliciting of any kind. The deejay spinned the happening sounds. The bartender stirred up the smoothest drinks. The kitchen served up the tastiest cuisine. What more could anyone looking for a good time ask for? 
       To add life to their inner circle, Derrick and Mitchell brought along their exciting IRS protégé, Kathy Lowell. It didn’t take much to talk Kathy into coming with them to Missy D’s. It was Saturday night and it was also celebrity impersonator night for the dragqueens. The boys were going to dress up like old and new female celebrities.  
       Some of the boys wanted to look better than the women. Well-groomed gay men and lesbians showed up at Missy D’s in full force. My were they looking good. Certainly, they smelled good. Delicious enough to have for desert. In the lustful eyes of straight women like Kathy, she fantasized about having some of the black men on her menu as a personal smorgasboard. 
       “C’mon Kathy, what that’s look in your eyes?” Derrick asked Kathy, reading her open expression. 
       “The boys are looking mighty delicious in here,” Kathy replied, nerves of eroticism striking her senses. 
       “Don’t even think about it.” 
       “Look Derrick, I know what type of setting we’re in.” 
       “These guys in here are probably getting more dick than you.” 
       “Which pisses me off.” 
       “Girlfriend, there’re plenty of straight clubs where you can find some dick.” 
       “As long as it’s black dick.” 
       “And, as long as somebody’s got condoms.” 
       “Safe sex is a matter of life and death in the new millennium.” 
       “You better ask somebody.” 
       “Besides, my vibrator can take care of everything during my horny periods.” 
       “You women are so damn lucky.” 
       “Lucky? How?” 
       “Vibrators, dildos, beads, ticklers, creams, lotions and all types of other shit. There’s a shitload of toys you women can buy to get yourselves off.” 
       “For the right price, men can find ways to get themselves off.” 
       “Maybe that’s why clubs like Missy D’s fill up with lesbian women. You know, the dyke bitches who’ll be quick to tell men that they don’t wanna spend time with them, but they’ll gladly spend all of their money.” 
       “Well, that’s the woman of the new millennium.” 
       “The Twenty-First Century woman, huh?” 
       “The century of women who replace men with careers and material possessions.” 
       Kathy twirled her head in circular motions. “But, you’re a gay man. You’d be the last guy on Earth to concern yourself about the women of this modern day.” 
   
   
   
   
       “Yes, but I do have six brothers who are straighter than an arrow. They deal with women who care more about making money and shopping than they do about the welfare of their husbands and children. Those are the type of women I’m concerned about when it comes to my brothers.” 
       “Women who put their desires above their families and their communities?” 
       “Now you’re catching on.” 
       “One of my two brothers is married to a money-hungry whore. All she cares about is how big his paycheck is and how much money he spends on her.” 
       “And he hasn’t divorced her yet?” 
       “With four kids, a house mortgage, two car notes, credit card bills, and private school, divorce would be the last option.” 
       “Cheaper to keep her, huh?” 
       “Always.” 
       “Maybe that’s why none of my brothers have divorced their wives, even with some of their kids grown and moved out.” 
       “Marriage is easy going in, but hard coming out.” 
       Derrick pulled Mitchell closer and swung his arm around his waist. “Girlfriend, I don’t ever have to worry about any of them bitches divorcing me or breaking my heart. I’ve got everything and then some coming home to me every day and night. Ain’t that right, baby?” 
       “That’s right,” Mitchell complied, a smile etched on his face.” 
       Derrick and Mitchell tilted their heads in the same direction. Their lips met and created a thick layer of moisture. A French kiss topped everything off when their tongues twisted inside one another’s mouths.  
       “Hey, hey, save all of that for after the club,” Kathy announced, getting turned on by the male-on-male interaction. 
       Derrick and Mitchell created smacking noises similar to starving men attacking their last meals. 
       Kathy got their attention with a loud grunt. “Excuse me, boyfriend and boyfriend. Do I have to throw a big bucket of water on you two to make you all stop?” 
       Derrick stopped and wiped his mouth. “Oh, were you saying something, Miss Kathy?” 
       “You two have got the rest of the night and morning to get your freak on.” 
       “The impersonator show is gonna start soon.” 
       “Wanna order drinks?” 
       “We should before the show starts.” 
       A waiter came to their table and the threesome ordered mixed drinks.  
       Coming through the door holding hands as a loving couple were Sandy Barnholtz and Carol Wexler. The celebrity impersonator show featuring the finest dragqueens only came to Missy D’s once a year. Sandy and Carol made sure they weren’t going to miss such an event. Surprisingly, they claimed an empty table right next to Derrick and Mitchell and Kathy. She noticed how Sandy and Carol turned and stared at her with the warmest smile. 
       Kathy leaned forward to whisper to Derrick. “Hey, Derrick, I hope that these women in here don’t get the wrong idea.” 
       Derrick giggled. “Girlfriend, just give them the code and they won’t bother you.” 
       “And what code is that?” 
       “That you are strictly dickly.” 
       “Does it work?” 
       “Works every time.” 
       “The dyke couple at the table next to us, they’ve been staring at me every since they came in Missy D’s.” 
       “Honey, let me tell you something,” Derrick mimed. “The stares they’re giving you, they’re innocent stares. I can look at them both and tell they’re deep in love.” 
       “You sure?” 
       “Haven’t you ever heard that game recognizes game?” 
       “All the time.” 
       “Gay men recognize gay men. Gay women recognize gay women.” 
       “Like some built in radar?” 
       “Sorta.” 
       “We like to call it a ‘gaydar’.” 
       Kathy looked around the club and asked, “Can you tell who’s straight and who’s gay in here?” 
       “Yes.” 
       “How?” 
       “Conversation, body language, dress code, eye contact, among other things.” 
       “Are you psychic?” 
       “No.” 
       Another round of drinks arrived at their table. Sandy and Carol ordered a couple of beers and rocked to the fusion of the music. The host of the celebrity impersonator show shot onto the stage wearing a gold glitter jacket and black slacks with a gold cumberbund. The crowd shifted into wild mode. Psychedelic laser lights jetted all around the club. Music roared through the concert speakers.  
       “Ladies and gentlemen!” hailed the host into the microphone. “Are you ready to have the time of your lives?” 
       The smoky crowd of lesbians and gay men replied with pumped-up cheers and suggestive bodily gestures. 
       “I said, are you ready for a real good time!” the host squalled once more. “Are you ready for the motherfucking roof to come off the house?” 
       In response, foamy drinks slung across one table to the next. Cigarette ash thumped from one lap to the next.  
       “Our first celebrity impersonator is Steven Anderson. He’ll be impersonating Madonna. Alright, everyone, give it up for Steven.” 
       The crowd pounded their palms together for a monstrous applause. 
       Walking out on stage wearing a two-piece white suit with white stiletto heels was the Madonna impersonator. What a gorgeous sight Steven was. The hair was bleached whiter than pure winter snow. A set of the whitest pearls hung around Steven’s neck. He, slash, she, thrusted an erect finger in the direction of the deejay. Madonna’s monster hit, “Holiday”, thundered through the speakers. The performance kicked off with the biggest bang. The crowd were brought to their feet. Derrick and Mitchell and Kathy huddled together to form their own private table party. 
       “Look at girlfriend up on that stage!” Derrick wildly applauded. “Madonna would be smiling from neck-to-chin if she could see this.” 
       “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe the real Madonna was up there,” Mitchell examined. “Holiday happened to be my favorite Madonna song.” 
       “Girlfriend up on stage done got all these bitches worked up in here.” 
       “Missy D’s done turned into a bunkhouse stampede.” 
       “This sure is a big relief from the IRS.” 
       “Don’t have to look at those losers until Monday.” 
       Derrick lifted both arms to the sky and shouted, “Go ahead! Go ahead!” 
       “Derrick, you forgot, that’s a Madonna wannabe up there on stage.” 
       “Wannabe or not, that bitch is giving one hellavu show.” 
       “Yes, I must agree.” 
       “All impersonators are wannabes.” 
       “Closest they’ll get to living out their celebrity fantasies.” 
       “Got that right, babe.” 
       “I haven’t been this entertained since-----,” Mitchell tried saying before being cut off. 
       “Since when?” 
       “Since----.” 
       “Since you invited some of the boys over for our party.” 
       “Yeah, we’ll never forget that party.” 
       Kathy released a hard giggle. “Derrick and Mitchell, you guys are the most entertaining pair of gay men that I’ve ever met in my life. You guys are more entertaining than those two gay men who played on ‘In Living Color’.” 
       “Blaine Edwards and Antoine Merriweather?” Derrick recalled much too well. 
       “Yes, the men on everything.” 
       “Men on film, men on cooking, men on art, men on books, and men on vacation.” 
       “Wow! Talk about a good memory, I’ll bet you remember every line of every skit they’ve ever done.” 
       “Never missed an episode.” 
       “Bet you didn’t.” 
       “On that note, I’ll give it two snaps inside a circle followed by a rewind.” 
       Kathy turned beet red from excruciating laughter. “God, I can’t take this crazy silliness of your’s.” 
       “Just being myself, girlfriend.” 
       “Tell me something, Derrick.” 
       “What, darling?” 
       “The Madonna impersonator up on stage, do you love it or hate it?” 
       “Love it.” 
       “I’d get a kick out of hearing those guys say, ‘hated it’.” 
       The routine for the Madonna impersonator ended. The crowd settled down and returned to their tables. Before the next act, the staff cleared the stage and prepared for another celebrity impersonator. Derrick and Mitchell leaned forward to engage in another marathon kiss. 
       “Hey, can’t you two wait until you get home!” Kathy shouted, her voice accusatory. 
       Derrick pulled back and wiped his mouth. “We are at home, honeychild.” 
       “How’s that?” 
       “This is our second home,” Derrick incited, blowing a kiss over to Mitchell. 
       “Is that so?” 
       “Yes, Missy D’s is where we come to let loose.” 
       “I can see that.” 
       Intermission following the first act ended. The second act emerged on stage. Some dragqueen dressed to the nines and tens strutted back and forth wearing a long white glitter dress. Long strands of dark weave flowed down their back. The lean figure gave superior compliments to the dress. You guessed it right! A Diana Ross impersonator grabbed the microphone and proved to the crowd the top prize money belonged to them.  
       Diana Ross’s mega-hit, “Upside Down”, blasted through the speakers. The crowd jumped to their feet. More drinks went slinging over to other tables. Puddles of beer made the floor look like the place had been rained out. Kathy saw first-hand how homosexual men had the gayest time of their lives. Electricity charged the atmosphere. How could anyone not enjoy themselves inside of Missy D’s?  
       “Look at missy thang up there shaking,” Derrick took notice of, becoming more intoxicated.  
       “Make Diana Ross proud,” Kathy said, her rayon shirt wet from humidity. 
       “She’s working that glitter dress.” 
       “Don’t you mean he?” 
       “When they dress up in drag, he becomes she.” 
       “Okay, I get it.” 
       “Kathy, you’d have to be one of us to understand.” 
       “Believe me, Derrick, I understand.” 
       The Diana Ross impersonator routine ended. The crowd pumped up the prime with non-stop applauses. The impersonator took a quick bow and disappeared from the stage. Most people took their seats and cooled off to order more drinks. Kathy dazed off into a daydream. Something had her mind suspended with hair raising thoughts. 
       Derrick noticed and tapped her on the arm. “Kathy, my dear, has Missy D’s become too much for you?” 
       “No, that’s not it,” Kathy answered, taking one strong, deep breath. 
       “Not enough straight black men in here for you?” 
       “Wrong again.” 
       “Then, what is it?” 
       Kathy juggled the cubes in her mixed drink. “The dinner we had for Lisa Wallace, it’s something that Dr. Bonnett talked about in her speech.” 
       “Jesus, not her again,” Derrick disregarded from sheer frustration. “Dr. Bonnett is the last woman I want to talk about. Please don’t conjure up that bitch up.” 
       “Listen to me, Derrick. How long is it going to take the police to find her killer?” 
       “None of us know that.” 
       “Lisa Wallace got butchered up like some rotten piece of meat.” 
       The name Lisa Wallace resonated over to where Sandy and Carol sat.  
       Not wanting to seem like two nosy dykes, but their ears were receptive to the conversation. Their eyes rolled over to the table where everyone were in a mildly drunk state. Alcohol had ways of bringing out the deepest emotions buried inside of people. Names from the distant past flew out of their mouths like bats out of a cave. 
       “Excuse me,” Sandy said in her revved-up voice. “But did I hear you mention something about someone named Lisa Wallace?” 
       Before Derrick or Kathy responded, they did some personal investigating. 
       “And you are?” Kathy asked, studying Sandy from a few yards away. 
       “I’m Sandy Barnholtz.” 
       “Did you know Lisa Wallace?” 
       “Not personally.” 
       “Why’d you ask?” 
       “If she’s the same woman who worked for the IRS, then I believe the police are still searching for her killer.” 
       “Well, I’m employed with the IRS.” 
       “Lisa was also employed with the IRS.” 
       “Yes, she was.” 
       “Mind if my girlfriend and I join you guys over at your table?” 
       Kathy turned and gave Derrick and Mitchell a stare of approval. 
       When Sandy said girlfriend, she meant it in a literally gay sense. 
       “I’m sure Derrick and Mitchell wouldn’t mind.” 
       Sandy and Carol scooted the chairs closer to their table. The vibes among the group of five grew into a welcoming mode. 
       “Allow me to introduce ourselves,” Sandy opened up, extending out her hand. “My name’s Sandy Barnholtz, and this is my girlfriend of ten years, Carol Wexler.” 
       “The pleasure’s all our’s,” Derrick kindly reciprocated. “First, my name is Derrick Thomas. This is my boyfriend and confidant of nearly twenty years, Mitchell McNally. This silly, crazy woman right here, she’s our good friend from the IRS, Miss Kathy Lowell.” 
       “So, I take it that the three of you all work for the IRS?” Sandy asked. 
       “Yes we do,” Derrick said, being the spokesperson among the trio. 
       “That’s cool to have friends to hang out with after work.” 
       “Do you know what the three letters IRS stand for?” 
       “Internal Revenue Service.” 
       “You’re way off.” 
       “What does it really stand for?” 
       “Idiots, Retards, and Shysters. I’m only kidding.” 
       “Ha! Ha!” Sandy chuckled. “If that’s so, then I’ll stay far away from there.” 
       Kathy penetrated Sandy’s eyes. “Getting back to Lisa, did you know her personally?” 
       “No, but we did have a strong discussion about her at one of our meetings?” 
       “What meetings?” 
       “My girlfriend and I sponsor a woman’s group called S.A.V.E.” 
       “S.A.V.E.?” 
       “Yes, it’s an all-female support group for women who are victims of domestic violence, even women who were related to murder victims.” 
       “What does it mean? What does it stand for?” 
       “S.A.V.E. is an acronym for Sisters Against Violence Encounters?” 
       “Cool name for a woman’s support group.” 
       “It’s a non-profit organization designed to help women recover from domestic violence and lead healthy, productive lives.” 
       “Lucky for me, I’ve never been a victim of domestic violence.” 
       “One out of every four women are victims.” 
       “Too bad Lisa became a victim. We had a special appreciation dinner and prayer vigil for her at work just recently.” 
       “How coincidental, because S.A.V.E. joined with another women’s support group for a prayer vigil at the fountain in Gillham Park.” 
       “The same vigil for those two Brush Creek murders and the black women they’ve been finding dead around Gillham Park?” 
       “That’s the vigil.” 
       “I saw highlights of it on the news.” 
       “Would you be interested into coming to one of our meetings?” 
       “One of your S.A.V.E. meetings?” 
       “Why not? You don’t necessarily have to be a victim to be in attendance.” 
       “Wonder if I’d fit in?” 
       “Sure you would.” 
       “When do you guys meet?” 
       “The first and last Monday of every month.” 
       “Guess it wouldn’t hurt nothing.” 
       Derrick had ordered his fifth drink. Feeling rather good he was. The time for him to loosen up had come.  
       “Dr. Bonnett has got the ugliest face in the world,” Derrick blurted out.  
       “Derrick, honey, where’s that coming from?” Kathy asked, aware that he’s had more than enough to drink. 
       “Charlie’s got one of the ugliest faces, too, that I’ve ever seen in my life.” 
       “I’ll ask again, where’s all this coming from?” 
       “Charlie’s face is ugly enough to drive away a pack of wild baboons.” 
       “Who’s Charlie?” 
       “My crater-faced neighbor.” 
       “Why are you bringing him up at a time like this?” 
       “Because I know that he despises Mitchell and I. Furthermore, I know that he’s always calling us names like ‘faggots’ and ‘sissies’ and ‘punks’ and ‘gaylords’ and ‘booty pirates’ behind our backs.” 
       The name “Charlie” shot into Sandy’s ear like a nuclear missle. “Excuse me, but where do you know this Charlie character from?” 
       “I told you, he’s our neighbor,” Derrick said, his words coming out slurpy. 
       “Hoping not to sound like Sherlock Holmes, but where do you live?” 
       “On The Country Club Plaza.” 
       “Where on The Plaza?” 
       “At The Rosenburg Apartments, just right off J. C. Nichols Parkway.” 
       “This Charlie, did you say that he had really bad skin?” 
       “Looks like somebody took an icepick and burst open every pimple he’s ever had. He can call us all the faggots he wants, but with a face like his, I’d be scared to be seen anywhere in public.” 
       They city was relatively small and everyone just about knew each other. 
       With those refined details, Derrick described the same Charlie who killed Sandy’s dog Bolo. He had to be the same sonofabitch who tried to attack and kill her. 
       “Why are you so interested in Charlie anyway?” 
       “Did you guys follow the story about the two cops who wrestled with some maniac in one of the tunnels down in Brush Creek?” 
       “Who didn’t follow that story? The news aired it for almost a week.” 
       “Did you also hear about this creep killing one of their canine dogs?” 
       “We did.” 
       “And how he slipped past one of their helicopters by crawling into another tunnel?” 
       “Yes, we heard about that, too. We’d like to know, where are you going with all of this?” 
       “Hopefully, someone might help the police find this motherfucker. The streets won’t be safe until he’s taken off them. Would you say that this man Charlie has what is called a ‘nightmare-of-a-face?” 
       “One look at his face, and you’ve looked at your worst nightmare.” 
       Apparently, Derrick was drunk out of his mind. He could barely sit up straight. 
       Sandy dug deep into her soul. She tied her brains into a knot. “Tell me this, did Charlie serve time in the military, like during the Vietnam War?” 
       “In fact, he did do time in the Vietnam. He’s one of those shellshocked assholes who talks to himself and wanders around all the time. Do you know him personally?” 
       “We may have met on one occasion.” 
       “And what occasion is that?” 
       “One that would’ve been someone’s nightmare.” 
       “Charlie’s one of the strangest men that I’ve ever met.” 
       “Strange in what way?” 
       “I’ve never seen him with a woman. He keeps all kinds of crazy hours. He makes all kinds of weird noises up in his apartment. The man’s obsessed with Brush Creek like no other person in the world.” 
       Sandy eased her head to the side. Abruptly, she transitioned into a world of complete silence. The psychotic monster Derrick described had to be the same Charlie she faced that fateful night down in Brush Creek. Intermission ended for a second time and the third act jetted up on stage. Missy D’s brought on several more female impersonator acts before the night ended. 
  CHAPTER—37 
       How could one best describe Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli? He snacked on danger. He dined on death. Nobody lived on edge more than he did. Women were his primary enemy. The U.S. Government was his secondary enemy. The selfish politicians at the highest level were the ones who helped ruin his life. Serving in combat while in Vietnam created the monster he’d become. Likewise, women ruined his pride and self-esteem. They shook him off more than a wet towel at a carwash. They mocked him with impunity. They ridiculed him for the shortcomings he wasn’t responsible for.  
       This was how Charlie felt. The government sent him to fight a bleeding war on a foreign battlefield, just to bring him and thousands of others back home, filled with diseases and plagued with severe mental and emotional problems. Medication only sugarcoated him from his many of problems. He saw the government as a bunch of liars who deceived the masses of the people. He saw them as master manipulators who used people to fight their bleeding wars. 
       “The fucking government don’t care about us veterans! We’ve given our lives for this goddamned country!” Charlie raved, standing in the bathroom mirror with big beads of sweat popping out of his pitted face. 
       The sounds of heavy ammunition rung loudly through his ears. A swift flashback episode of innocent women and babies being killed raced through his mind. The irritability of a sudden outburst were only seconds away. 
       “War has no fucking beginning, and it has no end!” Charlie snarled through clenched teeth. “The goddamned government, they use poor people to fight their bleeding wars, so called in the name of democracy, for some type of shitass democracy that the poor don’t even have.” 
       Why couldn’t the memories be buried like indestructible poltergeists? Why couldn’t those ghostly memories of a nasty war vanquish like a mist of thin fog? The haunting episode of diving onto a dead body filled with countless devouring maggots felt like a javelin being pierced straight into his head. The feelings of worthlessness and guilt jabbed away at him. 
       “Before I went to Nam, I had one of the most handsomest faces around,” Charlie growled to himself, both hands covering two-thirds of his face. “This government of our’s, they’ve always been part of an ongoing criminal enterprises. Those pricks are nothing but criminals themselves. They get guys like me to do their dirty work, knowing that war has never been about democracy. War has always been about fucking money and power.” 
       Detectives Overstreet and Schroeder flipped down their shirt collars and rolled up their sleeves. They prepared for more disgusting interrogations inside a small room on the fifth floor of the downtown KCPD headquarters. Some young street punk in his early thirties had been apprehended by other detectives when they learned he could’ve been a major suspect in the Gillham Park killings.  
       Overstreet and Carey were informed their suspect was named Roderick Ford. He was a tall and skinny black man with thick rows of braids lining his head. Tattoos representing the thug life were painted across his arms and back. “Kool-Aid” was the street name he went by. Prior convictions for peddling dope and assaulting women were stamped on his unimpressive criminal resume. As usual, Overstreet nursed a warm cup of his favorite coffee.  
       He flipped open a folder outlining most of Roderick’s life history. “Tell me, Roderick, why do they call you Kool-Aid?” 
       Roderick cracked a smile. “Because I’m sweet, and I go down smooth.” 
       “Sweet enough to murder innocent black women in Gillham Park?” Overstreet hawked to the suspect. 
       “Sir, I haven’t murdered nobody.” 
       “Since I believe you’re a cold-blooded, calculated murderer, I’d prefer you to respectfully call me Lieutenant Overstreet.” 
       “Alright, Lieutenant Overstreet, I’ve never killed nobody in my life.” 
       Overstreet injected life into the interrogation session. “You terrorized black women before you killed them, and then you dumped them around Gillham Park.” 
       “Look, Lieutenant Overstreet, my mother’s a black woman. I have two sisters who are black, a buncha aunts who’re black, and my girlfriend happens to be black.” 
       “Which doesn’t say much to me.” 
       “C’mon, I can’t believe that I’m a suspect.” 
       “Well, start believing it.” 
       “How can you try and pin those Gillham Park murders on me?” 
       “Easy, Roderick, very easy.” 
       Overstreet flashed autopsy photos before the estranged eyes of Roderick. “Does she look familiar to you, Kool-Aid?” 
       “That’s Kenyatta, she used to work Troost and Prospect,” Roderick recognized at first sight. 
       “So, you did know her?” 
       “Yeah, from the streets.” 
       “You also knew that she was tied to drugs and prostitution?” 
       “Everybody in the neighborhood knew that she was hooking and doped out.” 
       “Kenyatta Moore was found suffocated with mud and debris forced down her throat.” 
       “I read the paper and watch the news, Lieutenant Overstreet.” 
       “Kool-Aid, my partner and I know all about your prior drug and assault convictions.” 
       “So.” 
       “We also know that the women you sold dope to were the same women who you assaulted when they didn’t comply with your demands.” 
       “What demands?” 
       “Turning tricks so you can line your pockets with more money.” 
       “Not true, Lieutenant.” 
       “What, you think we’re stupid?” 
       “I didn’t say that.” 
       “We know that you had frequent contact with Kenyatta.” 
       “Me and a lot of other dope slangers out there.” 
       “So, you’re admitting that you did sell dope to her?” 
       “All the time.” 
       “I’ll bet you’re real proud of yourself.” 
       “If she didn’t buy it from me, she would’ve bought it from some other slanger out there.” 
       “Guess you don’t care about the many of lives that you destroy.” 
       “What is this, guilt by association? Just because I’m a black man, I have to be the one who goes around killing black women? My mother’s black and------.” 
       “And Ted Bundy’s mother was a white woman!” Overstreet contested, slicing Roderick off in mid-speech. “Look at how many white women he killed before he got fried down in Florida.” 
       “Whenever you get finished, I didn’t kill Kenyatta.” 
       “When was the last time you saw her?” 
       “Can’t remember.” 
       “When was the last time you sold dope to her?” 
       “Can’t remember that, either.” 
       “What in the hell can you remember?” 
       “Only my name and that I’m a black man being accused of something that I didn’t do.” 
       “You give all men a bad name.” 
       Carey emerged from the shadows of the small dim room. Overstreet gave him the opportunity to pepper the asshole who proudly called himself “Kool-Aid”. “How far did you get in school, Kool-Aid?”  
       “Eighth grade.” 
       “Never sought to try and get your G.E.D.?” 
       “Never had any reason to.” 
       “Is that why you decided to slang dope?” 
       “For me, it’s the only way to survive.” 
       “And kill off other people in the process?” 
       Carey got quite clever with his questioning. He knew street games just as good as the ones who played them. He reached into the folder and presented yet another autopsy photo of a brutalized victim found in Gillham Park. “Recognize this young lady?” 
       Roderick twitched his eyes as he stared at the photo. “Yes, that’s Cheryl Heron.” 
       “Another one of your dope customers?” 
       “She was. What happened to her?” 
       “Her nude body was found stabbed to death. We thought you might’ve been able to tell us what happened to her.” 
       “I can’t tell you nothing.” 
       “Why not?” 
       “I don’t know a damn thing about Cheryl ending up dead.” 
       “When was the last time you saw her?” 
       “Must’ve been a week before they found her dead in the park.” 
       “Like Kenyatta, was it the last time you sold her some dope?” 
       “Sold her a dime rock.” 
       Carey read over the fine print relating to one of his prior assault convictions. “According to police records, you were arrested for assaulting Cheryl at one of the bus stops near 39th and Troost.” 
       “She tried to steal some of my weight. She’s lucky that I didn’t skulldrag her ass up and down Troost.” 
       “She should’ve stole all of your dope and flushed it down the toilet!” Carey blasted out of raw frustration. 
       “And she would’ve turned up dead much sooner than when she did.” 
       “Kool-Aid, did you kill Kenyatta and Cheryl?” 
       “No, I didn’t kill neither one of them.” 
       “We think you’re lying.” 
       “Think what you want.” 
       Overstreet felt a serious serial killer was in their presence. Once again, he popped out yet another photo of a Gillham Park murder victim. “Does she look at all familiar to you?” 
       Roderick nodded his head with a swagger. “Yeah, that’s Tracey Logan. She made her rounds from here and there.” 
       “Were you also involved with her murder?” 
       “I wasn’t involved with her murder and nobody else’s murder.” 
       “Like the others, did you sell dope to her?” 
       “Of course I did,” Roderick snickered, showing not a kernel of remorse. 
       Overstreet had had enough of his idiotic, senseless bullshit. Both of his hands gripped the back of the chair where Roderick sat. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, Kool-Aid?” 
       “Does what bother me?” 
       “Peddling dope around to your own people?” 
       “Hey, like I said, if I don’t sell it, somebody’s gonna sell it.” 
       “Don’t you have any remorse preying on weak and vulnerable people?” 
       “Black people aren’t the only ones buying dope. Look at all the white people coming in from the suburbs to buy dope. A lot of my customers were those rich white kids from the wealthy suburbs.” 
       “The ones living in million dollar homes and driving sixty-thousand dollar cars?” 
       “Exactly.” 
       “We’re detectives, and we know all about the ‘white flight’ of suburban whites who come down into the inner-city to buy drugs.” 
       “Which should tell you that black people aren’t the only ones involved.” 
       “Let’s just stick with the issue-at-hand. Eleven black women have been found in Gillham Park in nearly two years. We know for a fact that you, Kool-Aid, had frequent contact with these women through your sale of dope. We know for a fact that you were convicted for assaulting at least five of these women. Your motive for their murders was simply drugs and power.” 
       “Not true.” 
       “Who’s the next victim you had in mind?” 
       “Nobody.” 
       “Were you ever afraid of getting a nine-to-five?” 
       “Working just ain’t in my blood.” 
       “And distributing poisonous substances in the community is?” 
       “If that’s how you look at it.” 
       Overstreet circled the room in the most incomprehensible fashion. He dispelled the myth about white law enforcement not caring one bit about the plight of inner-city blacks. Young black women with a wealth of potential, those who’d gotten off on the wrong track with drugs and prostitution, became a major part of his detective work.  
       “We’re not only investigating the Gillham Park murders, but we’re also investigating both Brush Creek murders. Our plates are running over here at the police headquarters. Kool-Aid, we’re going to need your full cooperation, especially if we’re ever going to solve any of these murders. If you’re not the one who’ve killed any of these women, then tell us who might be responsible.” 
       “Lieutenant Overstreet, I’ve never had any reason to kill any of those women. Sure, they pissed me off by trying to steal some of my dope. I might’ve slapped them around a few times, but as far as killing any of them, I’d never do such a thing.” 
       “Then, who could’ve been responsible?” 
       “I’d be looking at Oombah if I were you all.” 
       “Oombah?” Overstreet questioned, the mentioning of the name jumpstarting the interrogation. 
       “That’s right.” 
       “The same Oombah who wears dreadlocks with the stocky-muscular build?” 
       “Yes, the same Oombah who quit school in the sixth grade, the same dummy who can’t even count to ten, the same nigga who can’t read a whole sentence all the way through.” 
       Kool Aid and Oombah were definitely bitter street rivals. 
       “We’ve picked him up many times for drug possession and assault and battery on many women.” 
       “There you have it, Lieutenant Overstreet,” Roderick confirmed. “White girls are his easiest targets. He finds weak white girls, use them to help slang his dope, live off them as long as he can, then kick them straight to the curb. Oombah is a much worse animal than I could ever be.” 
       “An enemy of your’s?” 
       “Given my choice, I would’ve popped him a long time ago. How he lived this long, none of us can figure it out. The nigga has done nothing but take up precious air on this Earth the whole time he’s been alive. Yes, I said the word ‘nigga’ in the presence of you two white men, because that’s exactly what he is. There’s black people, and there’s niggas. Oombah’s a bonafied nigga in the end.” 
       “What makes you think he might be involved with any of the Gillham Park murders?” 
       Roderick wrestled his shoulders and said, “Oombah sold much dope to Kenyatta and Cheryl and Tracey and some of those other females found dead in Gillham Park.” 
       “You know this to be factual?” 
       “Sure do.” 
       “Go ahead, tell us more.” 
       “Check his records, I’ll bet he’s got priors for beating up some of those females. People have overheard him saying that he’d kill some of those bitches if they ever stole his dope or tried to run off with any of his money.” 
       “Did you ever overhear him say any of those things?” 
       “Once, maybe twice.” 
       “DNA could possibly link him to some or all of those murders.” 
       “Lieutenant Overstreet, I swear on the soul of mother that I didn’t kill any of those women. I might’ve put my hands on them, but never would I take any of them out. Oombah’s an out-of-control animal who needs to be put inside of a cage. As far as those Brush Creek murders, there’s no way I’d have anything to do with them. I’m not white, I don’t have a crater face, and I can’t kill a big German Shepard dog with my bare hands. Yeah, I read about that monster who attacked a couple of your boys on the police force and strangled one of your canines to death.” 
       “We never suspected you were involved with those murders. We just wanted to see if you heard anything out on the streets.” 
       “Haven’t heard a word. Whoever the guy is, he’s one clever sonofabitch. The news showed how he crawled through one of those long tunnels in Brush Creek to get away from a couple of your policemen. I played around in those Brush Creek tunnels when I was a kid, and I know for a fact that they’re loaded big ass sewer rats.” 
       “We’re going to put an All Points Bulletin out on this Oombah. Do you know his real name?” 
       “Believe his real name is Durrell Pruitt.” 
       “Durrell Pruitt’s right.” 
       Snitching paid big dividends. Pressure brought out the best of snitching in any person. Overstreet and Carey pushed all the right buttons to get Roderick to snitch on his street thug rivals. More detectives were needed to pool together the full resources of the KCPD in solving the Gillham Park and Brush Creek murders.  
       Roderick had no choice in staying put. Being detained by the department was the best thing to happen to him. The vicious thug known as “Oombah” became their number one person of interest. They had to get the sub-human bastard off the streets. The other sub-human monster responsible for the Brush Creek murders also had to be taken off the streets. 
  CHAPTER—38 
       A mild wind blew light snow drizzles around the historic buildings on The Country Club Plaza. Thanksgiving Day brought out hundreds-of-thousands of thrillseeking souls to the streets of an elite part of town. Snow had formed thin layers on top of the Victoria’s Secret, Barnes and Noble, and Baby Gap buildings. The windows of the Jack Henry and Tiffany’s Jewelry buildings were smoked with frost. From the N. Valentino’s clothing store to Houston’s restaurant, the people starving for entertainment stood shoulder-to-shoulder. 
       In front of Kinkos, on the side of The Palace Theatre building, the electrified souls pressed against each other from neck-to-neck. The atmosphere on The Country Club Plaza was charged with heart racing excitement. The Plaza Lighting Ceremony was only minutes away. The thousands of lights which had been wrapped so scientifically around every single building on The Plaza were close to being fired up. Glassbreaking screams were sent into the air. Men and women and children couldn’t hold back their anxious tendencies. 
       Coming through a dense crowd right on J. C. Nichols Parkway was Charles Rastelli. A thick gray wool cap with side flaps covered a good portion of his face. A matching wool maxi coat draped his body all the way down to his ankles. Some in the crowd pitched him the hardest stares. Others kept their distance since his presence projected an aura of evil and danger. He was a wanted man and knew better to keep the lowest profile.  
       His place of residence, The Rosenburg Apartments, was only two short blocks away. Why not come out and join in on the celebration? Only thing, Charlie didn’t come out to be a part of the holiday celebration. He came out to hunt for new prey. Searching for easy victims was the biggest play of his life. Presently, The Country Club Plaza was his hunting ground. Taking his victim back to the murder quarters would be his playground.  
       The countdown began. The crowd of over three-hundred thousand people, stretching from a two mile radius, counted from ten down to one. The Plaza lit up every single building with an array of blue, yellow, green, purple, and red lights. Cheers of great magnitudes echoed throughout the streets. Personalities from every major news station in Kansas City stood on a stage holding microphones as they aired live. The mayor took to the stage to give a brief speech. 
       Charlie wandered through the streets a lonely soul. Thousands-upon-thousands of people were in his presence. He felt like he’d been the only person on The Plaza. The prior episode of recalling how the Vietnamese hookers viciously mocked him raced through his mind. The mere thought of making other women pay for what they did tore straight into his soul.  
       Holiday shoppers muscled their way through the congested Plaza crowd. More than a handful of attractive women traveled up and down the street. The two words, “I’m single”, were etched all across their cold, red faces. The hunting strategy for Charlie began. He casted the widest net possible. But who’d be the easiest prey among the thousands of women?  
       The Country Club Plaza was the place where the bigshots came to spend, to play, to flaunt their status, or just plain hang out with their wealthy constituents. His innermost thoughts told him none of those women would’ve given him the dirt from under the bottom of their shoes. For Charlie, the answer came sooner than he wished. Standing directly in front of The Cheesecake Factory was some woman with a look on her face which expressed: I’m anyone’s for the taking.  
       She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, a firm slim build she carried, while her episode of good looks hadn’t quite withered away. Signs of extreme loneliness were transmitted back to Charlie. The bright neon lights from The Cheesecake Factory sign projected a soft sheet of red light down onto her slender face. She casted sentiments of being approachable. Charlie wasted not one second to make his move. He bogarted his way through a cluster of people who had their bodies parked around the sidewalks. 
       “Happy holidays,” Charlie greeted the strange woman. 
       “Happy Thanksgiving,” she returned, breaking out of her shy mode. 
       “What brings you to The Plaza on a cold night like this?” 
       “Anything to get out of the house.” 
       “Sounds to me you’re not happy being there.” 
       “Not happy at all. My boyfriend’s the almighty asshole.” 
       “Boyfriend? Before I decided to approach you, I was hoping that you didn’t have a problem like that.” 
       “Well, I do have that problem.” 
       “My condolences to you. How compounded are your problems at home?” 
       “There’s no food in the cabinets nor the refrigerator. He’d rather drink and get high than put food in our apartment. We’re literally starving to death because of his fucking addictions.” 
       “That’s not good.” 
       “He likes to fight all the time.” 
       Charlie may have found the victim he’d hoped for. A noticeable dark ring was stamped around her left eye.  
       “What’s your name?” 
       “Amy. What’s your’s?” 
       “Charles, but all my friends and associates call me Charlie.” 
       “You live around here?” 
       “Right up the street in The Rosenburg Apartments.” 
       Amy Alex was her full name. She had a past and present peculiar to most people her age. She’d been in and out of abusive relationships. She experimented occasionally with drugs. Family members shunned her because of her poor choice in men and her wreckless lifestyle. But appearances were rather deceiving. Bad relationships and drug use didn’t seem to ruin her semi-good looks.  
       “You from Kansas City, Amy?” Charlie asked, sizing her up pretty good. 
       “Born in St. Louis, raised mostly in Chicago.” 
       Charlie’s newfound victim had gotten easier. Not being a native of his city would give him the right to take sole advantage of her. 
       “What brought you to K.C.?” 
       “Change of scenery, which didn’t turn out the way I hoped.” 
       “I just don’t understand why guys go around mistreating nice, good looking women like yourself.” 
       “Sometimes, people don’t realize what they have until they’ve lost it.” 
       “Isn’t that the truth. Hope your boyfriend won’t get jealous with you standing here talking to me.” 
       “He’s my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.” 
       Vulnerability on Amy’s behalf sent mixed signals straight back to Charlie. Broken hearts proved fatal in some cases. A woman with ruined emotions were most susceptible to lowdown bastards. Could Amy’s weakness be Charlie’s strength? Amy slanted her head to the side. Noticeably, she observed the pits spread out across Charlie’s rough face. He didn’t have to second guess how she picked up on how bad his complexion was. 
       “You hungry?” Charlie offered, clutching his wallet. 
       A familiar growl echoed from her stomach. “With no food in our apartment, I’m starving about right now.” 
       “Cheesecake Factory sound good?” 
       “Sounds perfect.” 
       Charlie escorted Amy inside the luxuriously-decorated Cheesecake Factory. Nothing less would’ve been expected from any business operating on The Country Club Plaza. Shiny red oak panels and glistening marble floors marveled in fine tune with the low lights and soft music.  
       A gorgeous receptionist with silky blonde hair and even tan greeted Charlie and Amy.   “Welcome to The Cheesecake Factory, how may I help you?” 
       “Can we look at your menu?” 
       “Sure can.” 
       “We’re both starving like two castaway souls.” 
       “Will you be eating here or will it be carry out?” 
       Charlie initiated a warm smile over to Amy. “Wanna eat here or somewhere else?” 
       “Didn’t you say that you lived two blocks from here?” 
       “Two short blocks.” 
       “We can go back to your place,” Amy suggested, her eyes feasted on the mouth-watering menu. 
       “My place’s fine. Besides, look at the mob of people who’ve already filled up all the tables. The Plaza Lighting Ceremony brings in people from all over the state.” 
       “All over Kansas and Missouri, as far as that concerns,” the receptionist interjected, not able to keep her eyes off Charlie.  
       A quick frame flashed through Amy’s mind. A prior news broadcast reminded her of a man wanted for the possible responsibility of both dismembered bodies found in Brush Creek.      
       Charlie requested his meal after studying the menu. “I’ll have the grilled rib-eye steak with the marinated French fries and garden salad. So, Amy, have you seen anything on the menu you’d like to order?” 
       “Same thing you ordered, Charlie.” 
       “Anything to drink?” 
       “How about the Cognac with the spicy vanilla and matured fruits.” 
       “Now that’s the perfect drink to put you in the holiday spirits.” 
       The receptionist shook her head and told them, “Sorry, but drinks are only for in-house.” 
       “Oh yeah, I forgot. What about desert?” 
       “Let’s see,” Amy paused. “The chocolate oreo mudslide cheesecake sounds good enough to make you slap The President and his mother.” 
       “What exactly is that?” 
       The receptionist explained in tasty details. “It’s chocolate oreos baked in our creamy chocolate cheesecake with a chocolate-almond brownie crust.” 
       “No, desert like that sounds good enough to make you slap The Queen of England. We’ll both have the exact same dinner and desert.” 
       The receptionist said with delight, “Your order will be coming right up.” 
       Despite customers flooding into the restaurant and bar, the receptionist found someone else to relieve her up front. She disappeared far off into the kitchen. One of the main chefs, some tall Italian guy with slicked back hair pinned up into a long ponytail, picked up on her weird behavior. 
       “Hey, got something you wanna talk about?” the chef asked the receptionist. 
       “Nino, would you think I was crazy if I told you that the Brush Creek killer might be up front?” 
       Other chefs in the kitchen chopped and pounded away at dishes for their hungry customers. 
       “Brush Creek killer?” Nino tried envisioning. “The psycho who killed those two women they found chopped up in trashbags?” 
       “Yes, Nino, yes!” she bravely spit out. “When those two cops were jumped down in Brush Creek by the sicko who killed their canine dog, they had a composite sketch done of the man they were looking for. That man up front, he sorta looks like that drawing they put on the news.” 
       “Sorta isn’t good enough. Have the cops even caught that guy yet?” 
       “Not yet.” 
       “How about we both take a peek at this goolamafoombacchi.” 
       “Goolamafoombacchi?” 
       “It’s an Italian term. You’d have to be Italian to understand.” 
       The pair smoothed their way past the swinging double doors of the kitchen. Charlie and Amy waited with ultimate patience up front. A line of restless patrons stood to the side with hopes of getting a table after others were finished.  
       “Whaddaya think, Nino?” the receptionist asked. 
       Nino studied Charlie with intense impunity. The face came more into focus. “Darling, he doesn’t look much different from the hundreds of other guys who traffic in and out of The Cheesecake every week. It’s been awhile since the news talked about the prick who might’ve killed those women found in Brush Creek.” 
       “Nino, I have one of the most photogenic memories in the world.” 
       “Still, you can’t go around making false accusations against people.” 
       “Don’t think I’m trying to make something out of nothing.” 
       “Haven’t you ever heard that everybody in life has a twin somewhere on this Earth?” 
       “Maybe you’re right.” 
       “Let me get back in this kitchen to feed all these hungry people. You know that’s how we make money here at The Cheesecake Factory.” 
       The main receptionist returned up front. Charlie struck the strongest chord with her. Ironically, her intuition about him was one-hundred percent correct. Yes, a vicious serial killer was in her presence. An emotionally and mentally disturbed murderer was also in the presence of many others.  
       Their order finally arrived. The total for the check had been calculated. Charlie had to reach into his pocket for a hundred and thirty-eight dollars and forty-seven cents. No, meals at The Cheesecake Factory weren’t cheap. Any business operating on The Country Club Plaza wasn’t cheap at all.  
       Charlie handed her a crispy one-hundred dollar bill and a crinkly fifty dollar bill. He and Amy stepped outside The Cheesecake Factory. Karma was hot on his trail. Charlie was hit hard with an unwelcome surprise. Sandy Barnholtz and Carol Wexler had come out to be a part of The Plaza Lighting Ceremony. Sandy’s wandering eyes guided her right over to where Charlie and Amy weaved through the thick crowd. Unfavorably, Charlie had no idea he was being watched by the very woman he tried to assault that one dark night down in Brush Creek. 
       “Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaarlie!” Sandy’s voice screamed out in shattering octaves. 
       Charlie looked around to see who could’ve called out his name with explosive aggression. The crowd had gotten alarmed. Who was this Charlie? Could there have been more than one person among the assembly of people named Charlie? He looked around again and spotted the woman he feared most. She projected burning eyes of vehemence. She pointed a venemous finger at him.  
       “Who’s that woman, Charlie?” Amy asked, a ringing going through her ears. 
       “Your guess is as good as mine’s,” Charlie ignored, the crowd irritating him by every passing second. 
       “There are two women over there staring at us. They’re pointing at us like they wanna come over here and beat the both of us into the concrete.” 
       “Let’s just get the fuck away from all this bullshit.” 
       Charlie snatched Amy by the arm and they weaved through the aroused crowd. People weren’t too happy with the utter disrespect Charlie displayed. They stared at him as though he had balls the size of Mountain Everest. The nerves on a scumbag like him.  
       Carol moved in front of Sandy and acted as a sort of a shield. 
       Sandy insisted on confronting Charlie face-to-face. 
       “Babe, please don’t hold me back,” Sandy elected, trying to force herself from Carol’s blockade. 
       “Don’t get yourself hurt or killed,” Carol warned Sandy, still blocking her every move. 
       “But he’s the same sicko-sonofabitch who killed those women found in Brush Creek. He’s the same shitbag who killed Bolo and tried to rape and kill me. He’s the same dirtbag who attacked those two cops down in Brush Creek and killed their canine, the same motherfucker I saw the night of the prayer vigil.” 
       “Your mind playing tricks on you again?” 
       “Carol, I’d be willing to bet my life on it, that that was the same puke named Charlie. Aren’t you the one who told me a long time ago to go to the police? Didn’t you tell me to come forward and help the police get him off the streets?” 
       “Sure, I’m the one.” 
       “Then, why are you holding me back?” 
       “By chance, what if he wasn’t the same man the police were looking for. What if he wasn’t the same psycho who killed Bolo and tried to rape and kill you?” 
       A swift draft of wind blew across the malevolent face of Sandy. “Babe, other women’s lives are at stake. Remember the night we were at Missy D’s? Remember the black guy named Derrick who described a neighbor of his named Charlie, a guy with a badly acne-scarred face who was a Vietnam War veteran?” 
       “The gay black guy who had a white male lover counterpart?” Carol recalled far too well. “The night we were in Missy D’s for the celebrity impersonation show?” 
       “Yes, you’ve got the right person and the right place. I asked him about the name of the apartments they lived at, but can’t remember for shit, even if my very life depended on it.” 
       “The Rose-something. It was some type of Jewish name.” 
       “Roseberry, Rosenstein, Rose----.” 
       “Right now, if my brains were a hundred sticks of dynamite, I couldn’t think hard enough to blow down a one-story building.” 
       “I’ve had enough of this lowlife slipping from under the radar. When I figure out which apartment he lives at, I’m showing up there with the whole police force. It sickens me to know that a pathetic psychopath keeps making a clean getaway. In the plainest view, I saw him walking with a woman carrying sacks from The Cheesecake Factory. Tonight, I’ll cry my eyeballs out of the sockets, knowing full well that he’ll probably ending killing her too. Then, he’ll cut her up and put her in trashbags and dump her somewhere in Brush Creek.” 
       Sandy’s prediction could well have been in the making. The pain of knowing she couldn’t’ve stopped it set in. The lesbian duo learned in life there were winners and losers, there were heroes and villains. 
  CHAPTER—39 
       Charlie arranged a few items to make Amy feel quite welcome inside his cozy apartment. Nighttime fell upon the city. The massive crowd hung around The Country Club Plaza to soak up the rest of The Plaza Lighting Ceremony. Groups of drunk idiots paraded through the streets yelling while disturbing the peace of the more tranquil tenants around The Plaza. Charlie tuned out the undesirables by closing his blinds and playing some of his favorite rock tunes. Amy flipped open the carry-out box and the aroma of the rib-eye steak and marinated French fries stimulated her tastebuds. She’d been pampered with silverware and condiments. 
       “A drink, you’d like one?” Charlie offered, demonic forces making their way into his mind.   
       “What’cha got?” Amy asked, cutting right into her succulent rib-eye steak. 
       Charlie parted the doors to the kitchen cabinets and showcased his liquor display. “Let’s see, I’ve got Remy Martin, Canadian Mist, Vodka, Hennessy XO, Courvoisier, Cognac, and Jack Daniels.” Yes, he was also a part-time alcoholic. 
       “Wow! You’ve got the finer, the more expensive liquors. I take it you’ve got scotch, rum, bourbon and gin.” 
       “The works, darling.” 
       “Only thing, Charlie, I’m a recovering alcoholic. I’m eight months sober and don’t wanna go and ruin things.” 
       “It’s the holidays, go ahead and have a little fun. A couple of drinks for Thanksgiving won’t hurt nothing.” 
       “Well----.” 
       “C’mon, have a couple’a drinks with me.” 
       “Well, I guess two wouldn’t hurt. What’cha have to mix it with it?” 
       Charlie whipped open the refrigerator door to showcase his soda collection. “Pepsi, Coca Cola, Sprite, Root Beer, Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper.” 
       “Hennessy and Coke sounds good.” 
       “Great, I’ll have a Remi Martin with Pepsi.” 
       While Amy cut up portions of her succulent steak, Charlie stood in the kitchen preparing their holiday cocktails. He brought the drinks into the front room and placed them on coasters. She ate one portion of the delicious steak after another.  
       “How’s your steak?” Charlie asked, watching Amy dive into the steak.  
       “Tastes very splendid. It’s like finding a new friend.” 
       “So, tell me a little bit about yourself.” 
       Amy swallowed a big portion of tender meat. “Anything in particular you’d like to know?” 
       “Ever been married, any kids, your hobbies, your educational level, the type of people you frequent with, things of that sort?” 
       “Never been married, no kids, I like to travel, read, study tarot cards, and hang out in bars. Educationally, I did graduate high school and went to a Jesuit college in Chicago before dropping out my sophomore year. People I frequent with are usually the cool, rock and hip hopish type, the ones with crazy tattoos and piercings everywhere.” 
       “I forgot to ask, how old are you?” 
       “Twenty-five.” 
       “Rather young, aren’t you?” 
       “How old are you?” 
       “Won’t give you an exact number, but I served two tours of duty over in Vietnam.” 
       “Which puts you somewhere in the neighborhood of late fifties or early sixties?” 
       “Won’t say, but you’re awfully close. Do you have any brothers or sisters?” 
       “One brother and one sister.” 
       “There are three of you all,” Charlie said, going to work on his scrumptious steak. “Your folks still married?” 
       “Divorced when I was ten. How about your folks?” 
       “Both deceased.” 
       “Sorry.” 
       “Father died when I was in high school. Mother died when I was in Vietnam.” Charlie spoke in sentimental tones, only to disguise his true evil intentions. 
       Amy took a break from devouring her steak. She looked around the walls inside his apartment and noticed all the posters and other memorabilia of Brush Creek. 
       Everyone had their fascinations with something or another in life. But it puzzled Amy to see his super magnetic attraction for a creek infested with raw sewage. 
       “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are the posters on your wall that of Brush Creek?” 
       “The one and only Brush Creek.” 
       “Forgive me for asking, but what is it exactly that you love about Brush Creek?” 
       “I grew up as a kid playing down in Brush Creek,” Charlie partially explained, his voice laced with adrenalin. “Brush Creek is where I always found my biggest piece of mind. There’s no greater engineering marvel in this whole wide world. The late great Tom Pendergast built Brush Creek with materials used from his cement company. There was nothing more exciting than catching snakes, birds, frogs, rabbits, fish, and even coons and possums, right down in the creek when I was a little boy. Nothing excited me more than running in and out of those dark tunnels with the big sewer rats splashing water on me and my friends.” 
       Charlie fed Amy the same trash he’d fed to victim number one and victim number two. The disgusting garbage about Brush Creek transitioning from its semi-natural state upstream from The Country Plaza into its old concrete channel. The babbling bullshit about how forty-eight percent of total annual flow being sewage, the raw sewage backups in homes and businesses, high levels of e-coli leading to gastrointestinal illnesses, hepatitis and respiratory problems, fish dying in record numbers, and downstream drinking water being impacted negatively. The cold-blooded killer told Amy about the pharmaceuticals, detergents, household chemicals, and insecticides which polluted the creek water. 
       “Wooooooo!” Amy whistled, belting down a mouthful of her drink. “What don’t you know about Brush Creek? Listening to you talk, there seems to be nothing about the entire infrastructure you aren’t familiar with.” 
       “Did you know that Brush Creek is nicknamed ‘Flush Creek’?” 
       “No, Charlie, I didn’t know that.” 
       Amy allotted herself enough time to observe the nightmare-of-a-face Charlie was cursed with. The more she looked at the ravaging scars on his face, the more she became struck with fear. Her drink distorted an image of the man who bewildered her presence. She finished her first drink and hinted she was ready for the second. Charlie fixed her another glass of Hennessy and Coke. One bite of the chocolate oreo mudslide cheesecake and a dose of aphrodisiac inclinations came over her. Amy had been a chocolate lover all her life and her facial language proved it. 
       “Desert good?” Charlie asked. 
       “Hmmmmm, the best.” 
       Charlie volunteered more fact about Brush Creek. “The same big pipe that carries wastewater through toilets, sinks, and drains in homes and businesses is part of a Combined Sewer System, something the engineers call CSS. Can you believe that that system is over a hundred years old? When rainfall is low to moderate, stormwater and wastewater goes to a treatment plant without overflowing into Brush Creek.” 
       Amy finished her desert. She’d grown dead tired of listening to human trash talk about environmental trash. Didn’t Charlie have anything else to talk about? The boredom grew by the minute. Not having no life whatsoever caused people like him to fall crazily in love with a creek. Halfway through her second drink, he noticed her glass getting low. 
       “Ready for another drink?” Charlie asked, evil thoughts still corrupting his mind. 
       “One more and that’s definitely it.” 
       “Another drink coming right up.” 
       The effects of the alcohol were tardily felt by Amy. Wandering eyes sometimes stumbled upon unexpected findings. She stared across the floor and noticed bloodstains the size of quarters. The dark red colors were soaked deep into the oakwood floor.  
       With his back turned to fix her drink, Amy arose from the sofa and caught a closer glimpse of the bloodstains. Human blood it definitely was. Tinier specks were splattered around the larger ones. Pine-Sol and Parson’s Ammonia didn’t quite do the job. Amy took a seat back on the sofa before Charlie brought the drink to her. Feelings of uneasiness crept up on her. Dark and creepy sensibilities condensed the atmosphere. She switched back and forth from watching the front door to watching the blood in the middle of the floor. She sized Charlie up rather good. An alarming illusion raced through her head.  
        Every local news station had flashed composite sketches of the perpetrator who attacked the two police officers and killed the canine down in Brush Creek. Thousands of television screens lit up with the detailed composites. A ruined mug like Charlie’s became unforgettable. Amy looked up to the ceiling. The match between the drawing on television and what she saw before her came more into focus.  
       The Brush Creek killer was in her presence. Don’t go home with complete strangers. Mother and father instilled those lessons into their precious little girl. Amy now realized she should’ve taken those lessons to heart, mind, and soul. Charlie dropped his body down on the sofa next to Amy. He eased his drink down on the table. He stared fiercely into her eyes. Her frightened heart pumped into overdrive. 
       “Uh, I think I should be going,” Amy cordially said to Charlie, scooting to the opposite end of the sofa. 
       “Where?” Charlie queried, executing masterful body language. “The night’s still young and plus it’s the holiday.” 
       “Holiday or not, I really have to be going.” 
       “C’mon now, don’t be that way. Don’t disappoint a lonely guy like me.” 
       “My boyfriend’s waiting for me at our apartment.” 
       “But I thought you told me that he’s an asshole, and you needed time away from him.” 
       “Yes, but he’s still my boyfriend. I’m sure he’s getting worried about me.” 
       Charlie inched his way closer to Amy. His advances weren’t welcome. Amy sensed danger on the rise. She arose from the sofa and stepped closer to the door. Charlie snatched her close to him and tried to kiss her. Acting on spontaneity, she sunk her fingernails into his neck. She grabbed his flat mid-section with the other hand. Not a bulge was down there. Staple-like stitches going from the crease of his buttocks and up to his belly button were felt. Not wanting to do so, Amy broke out into a bolting laughter. 
       Laughter? How dare she giggle at a lost soul like him. Charlie knew what the laughter was about. The snickering of the two Vietnamese hookers crept into his mind. Being treated like a freak from the circus never ended. An infusion of anger sent Charlie into a rage. His hands turned cold and clammy. Heavy sweat popped from the pores of his face. Amy had to get out there as quick as possible. Charlie sprinted over by the front door. He used his body to barricade the entrance. Hypervigilance formed a noticeable blanket around his frame. 
       “Let me out of here!” Amy hollered as loud as she could.  
       “You’re not going anywhere, you whore!” Charlie sizzled, breathing in monstrous spurts. 
       “My God, what happened to you! What happened to your private parts?” 
       “Don’t worry about it, you bitch! You laughed at me and you’re going to pay for it.” 
       “Please, don’t hurt me, Charlie! Just let me go and I’ll forget that this ever happened.” 
       “Nobody laughs at me for not having any private parts.” 
       Amy remembered an episode of his face being shown on television news stations. “You’re the same man that the police are looking for.” 
       “What the fuck are you talking about?” 
       “You jumped those two officers down in Brush Creek and killed their German Shepard dog.” 
       “No, bitch, you’ve got the wrong guy.” 
       “You’re the Brush Creek killer,” Amy exposed, wishing help was closeby. “You’re the psycho who killed those two women and dismembered their bodies.” 
       “And you’ll be joining the both of them.” 
       Fear struck Amy to the point where heavy water gushed from her eyes. She trembled after knowing she might’ve been Charlie’s third victim. Keeping neighbors at The Rosenburg Apartments from hearing a potential ruckus was the mainstay of his strategy. Amy studied the tactical moves he executed so well from his years in Vietnam. He studied the survival moves she’d learned from her years of keeping company with street people.  
       Amy had no time for trying to plead for her life. She thrusted her small frame forward. Charlie grabbed her by the neck and choked her as hard as he could with both powerful hands. She tried fighting back. Her resistance was useless against a psychotic war veteran who fought experienced enemy personnel for recreation. With her body fully subdued, he intensified his grip around her neck. She had only ounces of strength left, trying desperately to claw him at the mid-section. It was wasted energy since he had no penis or testicles for her to inflict pain upon. 
       Her semi-long fingernails conjured up enough power to create flesh wounds along both arms. As with his first two victims, a sheet of terror were frozen in her eyes. Charlie’s unexpressed rage against women had caused the attractive features on her face to become distorted. She turned a bluish-black color from severe hemorrhaging. A glob of thick saliva drooled from her mouth. Seconds later, Amy Alex, a one-time native of Chicago, who’d come to Kansas City for a fresh start, became Charlie’s third murder victim.  
       Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli added another victim to his resume. Speaking of machete, Charlie whipped open the closet door and roamed through complete darkness for his Full Tang Monster Machete. The feel of a cold sharp blade indicated he’d found his sadistic murder weapon. He brought the machete into the light and a smirk was sealed across his face. The lifeless body of Amy Alex was sprawled across the floor. The discoloration of death was spread over her face. Charlie peeled every article of clothing off her body. A nude body was always easier to dismember. 
       Charlie, being the expert at knowing where to start chopping, swung the fiercely-sharp machete down at Amy’s major muscles. Next, he split through her biceps with a taste of the angry blade. Moving more towards her lower body, he chopped into other muscles and her abdominal cavity. To finish the job, the heartless beast whacked up and down her legs. 
       “War has no fucking beginning, and it has no fucking ending!” Charlie grizzled, clenching both fists while biting through his lower lip. 
       The torturous laughter of the two Vietnamese hookers rung stronger through his ears. The pain in his heart, the hurt in his mind, they were grotesquely abnormal. Dismembered body parts formed a puddle of blood six foot wide. A foul odor dominated the air. Charlie created one big human mess. Victim number three had to be disposed of before any trail of suspicion would spread around The Rosenburg Apartments. Charlie quickly had to go to work. 
  CHAPTER—40 
       The body parts of Amy Alex were gathered and thrown into the usual industrial strength trashbags. Charlie went through five buckets of Pine-Sol and Parson’s Ammonia to clean up the bloody catastrophe he’d created. Though he didn’t notice, a thin film of blood had soaked into the grain of the hardwood floor. The clock over by the window said exactly 2:37 a.m. The day after Thanksgiving wasn’t a pleasant one. Coincidentally, another full moon dominated the partly cloudy Kansas City skies.  
       Charlie had to wear another one of his masks of anonymity. Residents at The Rosenburg were well asleep. Quietness engulfed the inside and outside of the building. He cracked his front door and peeked out into the hallway. The only noise coming from out there were the sounds of electrical power from the hallway lights. He stepped halfway out into the hallway to make sure the other residents were in for the rest of the early morning. The moment for him to make his move seemed clearer than ever. 
       Two very large trashbags were thrown over his shoulders. He locked his door and began his journey down the stairs. Unexpectedly, the front door to the building opened. Charlie had only made it halfway down the stairs. No turning back for him. Derrick and Mitchell were coming through with a few of their friends from one of the premiere gay men’s club in the city. Celebrating the Thanksgiving holiday was far from over for them. The entire group of gay men were drunker than ever. They drowned their joys in every alcoholic drink imaginable. Derrick wiggled his eyes up and down until Charlie’s face came more into focus. 
       “Charlie?” Derrick drunkedly snoozed. “Is that you, Charlie?” 
       Charlie froze with the blankest look on his face. “Yes, Derrick, it’s nobody but poor old me, Charlie.” 
       “I hope you don’t mind me asking. But where are you going at this time of morning?” 
       “Just taking out the trash.” 
       “Lord, you’re the only man that I know of who takes his trash out real early in the morning. Why can’t you take your trash out in the afternoon or in the evening?” 
       “I’m usually busy during that time.” 
       “So, what do you do to take out so much trash?” 
       Charlie took a deep swallow. “Well, I cook, I clean, I get rid of old junk, I throw out old food.” 
       Derrick and Mitchell and the others had their drunken suspicions. They kept their eyes on both trashbags. As always, Charlie only wished the faggots would’ve left him the hell alone. He’d never stop hating homosexuals. He hated them growing up, he hated them even more in the present. A constitution he lived by was: If a faggot was ever going to pump me from behind, they’d do it over my dead body. 
       Derrick scoped a dark red spot on one of the trashbags. “Charlie, what’s that red mark on that bag in your left hand?” 
       Charlie swung the bag behind his back. “Oh, that’s…..uh…...that’s from one of the beef packages I had thrown into the trash earlier.” 
       “Did you know that I ran into a woman who said she might’ve known you?” 
       “What woman?” 
       “Some woman named Sandy. Don’t remember her last name.” 
       “I don’t know no woman named Sandy.” 
       “Mitchell and I met her at Missy D’s not too long ago.” 
       “Missy D’s?” 
       “Yes, the place where me and the girls go when we wanna get loose.” 
       “Never heard of it.” 
       Charlie grew more nervous by the second.  
       “Anyway, she said she might’ve been familiar with you.” 
       “Like I said, I don’t know no woman by that name.” 
       Derrick wanted to release harsher sentiments and just tell Charlie how Sandy described a man with a nightmare-of-a-face like his. He’d had enough of grilling Charlie. Too bad Derrick and Mitchell and the others didn’t know he’d just murdered and mutilated his third victim. The stable of gay men left him alone to go inside their apartment for an early morning of homosexual escapades. 
       The moon suspended in the pitch black nighttime skies spearheaded what appeared to be a huge glowing ball. There hadn’t been any recent bodies to turn up in Brush Creek. This gave the KCPD reason to back off.  
       The department couldn’t give the fearful and grieving public any predictions as to when the killer might strike again. All the energy from the Thanksgiving holiday died off within a matter of hours. Full bellies and intoxicated minds transformed into countless souls dropping into a deep sleep. 
       Charlie cruised with caution down Brush Creek Boulevard. He swung his head to both sides of the legendary boulevard in search of possible law enforcement or civilians. Traffic from both sides of the street was minimal. Every other street light was retired until the following night. Darker streets worked to his advantage. No lights were casted from nearby houses or apartment buildings. The bright glow from the full moon spilled a brightness down on Brush Creek in which Charlie became so very familiar with. 
       He parked his car nearly twenty yards into the grass. The creatures around the creek emerged from their inner sanctums. Rabbits shot at full speed across the tall grass. Ducks flew at low levels, bouncing their slender bodies across the chilled creek water. Possums weaved through colorful fall leaves in search of a quick meal. Snakes slithered through thick brush, waiting to catch unsuspecting prey. Fish and frogs swam throughout the water, trying to avoid being another creature’s meal.  
       Charlie popped his trunk and pulled out the heavy trashbags. He looked every direction to make sure another wild rendition between himself and police officers wouldn’t occur. Taking a few steps towards the woods convinced him the time to make his move was pristine. Once again, he looked around, his frightening eyes projecting back at Brush Creek Boulevard. He made sure not a living soul watched him. The bags were toted to the middle of the heavy woods. The noises of annoying insects rung into his ears. A single car traveled up Brush Creek Boulevard almost every fifteen minutes. How sweet it was for Charlie.  
       Delightfully, a full moon gave Charlie every reason to perform his morbid ritual. He took four deep breaths. A heaving sound echoed from his chest. The intense brightness of the moon poured a supreme glow down on his face. Boulder-like heartbeats pounded throughout his upper-body. He paused for a few moments. Brush Creek had once again turned into an altar in which he’d made his sacrifice. 
       Charlie slung both bags into the creek water. The bags floated around the creek water, not to be submerged in any way. Being the clever psychotic bastard he was, Charlie looked around to make sure he couldn’t be spotted by anyone. Tranquility transcended around the creek. He eased into his car and drove across the grass. Yet another murder victim was waiting to be discovered somewhere down in Brush Creek.   
  CHAPTER—41 
       Couples didn’t mind walking through Brush Creek during the daytime hours with their large dogs. Harold and Marceline Brookings were no exception. With the assistance of their two large German Rotweilers, they weren’t taking any chances. Sure, they’d watched news clippings and read newspaper articles about the two gruesome Brush Creek murders. Most residents were fully aware of how Brush Creek was separated into two sections. There was a white Brush Creek and there was a black Brush Creek. 
       The white Brush Creek ran along the lines of The Country Club Plaza and points closer to the Nelson Atkins Museum. Upscale whites would do anything to keep the poor blacks from crossing over into their territory. The black Brush Creek bordered areas closest to the urban core. Struggling blacks only wanted to collect their paychecks from the uppity whites and call it a day. Some saw it quite amazing how a creek over a hundred years old separated the black and whites within the same city. The engineering marvel created a euphoria of segregation. 
       The Brookings couple were both retired from fulfilling careers. Harold did thirty-five years at Ford Motor Company over in the Fairfax District. Marceline didn’t want to walk away from her registered nursing job at Saint Joseph’s Hospital, but her peers convinced her to retire after thirty-three years. The Brookings enjoyed a comfortable retirement. The older African-American lovebirds decided to take a stroll along the concrete walkway near Swope Parkway. 
       “Honey, let’s go down by the creek,” Marceline suggested to Harold. 
       Harold wiggled his face into an inquisitive expression. “Ummmm, I guess it’s alright.” 
       “Honey, the smell of nature is quite refreshing.” 
       “Refreshing with sewage.” 
       “Aw, it’s not that bad.” 
       The giant Rotweilers were led down the walkway and towards the calm creek waters. The dog held on the leash by Marceline broke out into a sudden barking spell. He jerked and pulled out of control. 
       “Rocco, what’s the matter, boy?” Marceline questioned the aggressive beast. 
       “Rocco, calm down, boy,” Harold ordered the growling animal. 
       “Honey, why is he acting like this?” 
       “Your guess is better than mine’s.” 
       “He only carries on this way when someone’s walking near our fence.” 
       “Wonder if he spotted a rabbit or a squirrel, or maybe even a coon or a possum?” 
       “It’s possible.” 
       Abruptly, the Rotweiler held on the leash by Harold also barked out of control. Two barking dogs had to mean something. This puzzled the couple into an almost migraine headache. 
       “Brutus, why’re you barking so crazy, boy?” Harold looked down to inquire of their dog. 
       “It has to be rabbits running through the grass.” 
       “But I haven’t spotted any rabbits.” 
       “They run fast, honey.” 
       “We would’ve caught a glimpse of one of them.” 
       Rocco and Brutus pulled Harold and Marceline closer to the murky creek. Floating near the banks of the water were four large trashbags. Harold picked up a thick tree branch and poked at the bags. A grotesquely battered arm flopped from the corner of the bag. He jabbed at the bag next to it, and a partially decomposed torso had exposed itself. The third and fourth bags were shoved around to the point of exposing different legs and arms and torso. Marceline turned away with both hands pressed over her mouth. The horror of seeing a decomposing mutilated body ripped away at her insides. The fierce instincts of their canines were amazing. 
       “Good God in Heaven!” Harold gurgled, blinking both eyes while nodding his head. 
       “Honey, those are dismembered bodies in those trashbags,” Marceline squirmed, not able to swallow. 
       “This is not how I wanted to start my morning.” 
       “It’s not how anyone wants to start their morning.” 
       “I’ll skip breakfast this morning.” 
       “What’re we going to do, honey?” 
       “There’s only one civilized thing to do. The cops need to know about this disgusting horror.” 
       Harold dug deep into his pants pocket and slid out his cell phone. The three digits he dialed were nine-one-one. 
       “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked Harold. 
       “Operator, my wife and I discovered a couple’a bodies down here in Brush Creek.” 
       “Sir, where’s your exact location?” 
       “We’re near the vicinity of Brush Creek Boulevard and Swope Parkway.” 
       “Yes, that area sounds much too familiar.” 
       “Our dogs kept barking until we came upon the bodies floating around in trashbags.” 
       “Sir, how long ago was it that you made the discovery?” 
       “Not even ten minutes ago.” 
       “We’re sending units to that location. So please, stay there until the units arrive.” 
       “Operator, we’re not going to move.” 
       “They’ll be there shortly.” 
       “Okay.” 
       Harold ended the call and folded up his cell phone. Women were sentimentally more emotional than men. He studied the look on Marceline’s face. A tear had streamed down her face and dried. 
       “Sweetheart, are you alright?” Harold asked his wife, showering her with great affection.  
       The dogs had calmed down. 
       “Honey, this world gets sicker and sicker. Who’d want to do such a mean thing to somebody? When I leave this world, I hope I go on to a much better place.” 
       “There’s gotta be a much better place than this Earth. Maybe it was meant for us to find those bodies in those trashbags.” 
       “People kill other people, they cut them up into pieces, throw them into big trashbags, and then dump them into a creek with lots of raw sewage.” 
       “Know what I say?” 
       “What?” 
       “Whoever killed and cut up the people in those bags, they had to be the same person who killed the woman who worked for the IRS, and the woman who worked the streets of Independence Avenue.” 
       “The world’s just not a safe place anymore.” 
       “Having our dogs and guns inside the house, it’s the only way we stand a chance against these monsters out there.” 
       “White folks on The Plaza got less to worry about than us black folks.” 
       “You think so?” Marceline asked with the straightest face. 
       “At least the white folks on The Plaza have the The Plaza Patrol looking out for them. We as black folks at this end of town don’t have too much of any protection. The police only show up after one of us is either dead or after our house done been cleaned out by some robbers.” 
       Crime scene tape covered a perimeter measuring at least a half-city block. Police squad cars numbered about ten. Fire trucks were on standby just in case they were needed. Two all white coroner’s vans were parked alongside the squad cars. The full resources of the KCPD arrived to help process the scene. Two of K.C.’s finest showed up to take part in the repeated madness. Veteran homicide detective Lieutenant Overstreet and Carey Schroeder ducked under the tape as they approached all important parties.  
       Overstreet wasn’t getting much sleep these days since yet another body of an African-American woman turned up in Gillham Park. The killing just wouldn’t stop. The level of infuriation Overstreet experienced rose to dangerous levels. Carey had his own share of problems behind working around-the-clock hours to help solve the murders. He’d been trying hard to save his marriage. His wife nagged him about not being home to have dinner with the family. 
     The families of the murder victims were counting on them to find their killers. Esteemed and renowned Jackson County medical examiner, Dr. Anthony McKinnis, showed up with his forensic kit and two other doctors who worked under him.  
       Overstreet consulted with Carey to get all the details. “Shit, Carey, what do we have this time?”  
       “Looks like the same homicidal bullshit, Jerry,” Carey proposed out of frustration. “Two more mutilated bodies were found in four separate trashbags. This psychotic sonofabitch is making all of us look bad.” 
       “That’s putting it mildly, Carey. We had that shitbag right in the palm of our hands, and just like that, the stinking puke got the fuck away from us.” 
       “Again, we’re dealing with a sub-human sonofabitch here. We might need to bring in outside sources to apprehend this monster.” 
       “The department’s budget won’t allow that. The chief and the mayor are already crying about overspending and budget cuts.” 
       “But what about people’s lives? This animal is going to keep on killing. He’s going to keep on making us look like a bunch’a idiots who couldn’t catch a fly swarming around super glue.” 
       “Carey, believe me, our day will come. And guess what, my friend? Our day will come sooner than the both of us think. Nothing lasts forever, not even this sicko’s killing cycle.” 
       “Matters are only getting worse,” Carey huffed. “Two days ago, another black woman turned up in Gillham Park. Like the others, all kinds of mud and sticks and rocks were shoved down her throat. These assholes don’t have no respect for women, whatsoever. I can only see the lesbian population growing.” 
       Carey had the grandest point. Were men to blame for the escalating lesbian population? 
       Overstreet slipped into a split-second trance and came right back into the present. “The way I see it, I’m going to deal with those who are responsible for the murders of the women in Brush Creek and Gillham Park. Time hasn’t been on our side, but I do believe the tides will turn. And when we finally catch up with them, they’ll wish they hadn’t been born.” 
       Overstreet took matters personally. Women being violated in such a brutal fashion angered him to the effect of wanting to settle individual vendettas. 
       “We’ll both make them wish they hadn’t been born.” 
       “Who made the discovery?” 
       Carey pointed a few yards across the grass. “The black couple over there with the two big Rotweilers.” 
       From just looking at those two huge canines, something sparked fear inside Overstreet. 
       “Where’d they get those big monsters from? I’ll have a few words with them before we’re done. Alright, see what else you can find. Before we finish processing the scene, I’m gonna talk with Doc McKinnis to see what he might know.” 
       “Sounds good, Jerry.” 
       Overstreet approached Harold and Marceline Brookings with his pen and notepad ready to go work. Other detectives and police officers scoured the area for possible clues. The Brookings couple saw the two words “police detective” branded across his face.  
       Overstreet extended his hand as a cordial gesture to Harold. “Sir, I’m Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet, lead homicide detective with the KCPD.” 
       “Harold Brookings, detective. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 
       “Likewise, Harold. What could you tell me about finding the bodies in the trashbag?” 
       Intensity grew around this particular crime scene. 
       Harold sucked in a portion of the late morning air. “Well, detective, my wife and I came out for an early morning walk with our dogs. The closer we got to the creek, our two dogs wouldn’t stop barking. Strangely, when we got near the creek water, I took a big tree branch and poked at the four trashbags. Body parts started popping out of the bags. My wife here was totally hysterical from seeing what was inside those bags.” 
       “Amazing how dogs have senses to pick up on things that we as humans don’t have a clue about. Approximately, what time did you make your discovery?” 
       “I’d say, just past nine o’clock a.m. I didn’t waste no time calling the police.” 
       “You did the right thing. Did you see anyone walking around the area?” 
       “No one, detective.” 
       “You sure?” 
       “I’d swear on the soul of my two dogs here. Detective, I read the newspaper everyday. My wife and I faithfully watch the five and six o’clock news every single day. We both know about the two women that were found cut up and put in big trashbags, and then dumped down here in Brush Creek. Just to be on the safe side, my wife and I decided to bring our two German Rotweilers for a walk through this area. I know the story about the guy who attacked two police officers and killed their German Shepard. Would I be asking too much if I were to ask you if you believe the same man might be responsible for the bodies we found in those trashbags?” 
       “First, bringing your dogs with you for protection is one clever idea. Second, it’s quite possible that the same psycho is responsible. There’s a one-hundred percent chance that he’s the perpetrator we’ve been trying to apprehend for such a long time.” 
       “He’s got everybody living on edge.” 
       “That he does.” 
       “For the longest, drawings of what this man looks like were shown on every news station in the city. The police officers said this guy had what’s called a ‘nightmare-of-a-face’. He must be one ugly son-of-a-gun.” 
       “Harold, can I get you and your wife to come down to headquarters and give separate statements?” 
       “Sure can, detective.” 
       “Thanks for your cooperation.” 
       “You’re most welcome, detective.” 
       Harold and Marceline jerked on the leashes for Rocco and Brutus to start heading home. Overstreet was puzzled as to how the full resources of his department hadn’t apprehended their prime suspect. It bothered him to no apparent end how the heartless beast escaped time and time again. Many have said how anyone’s luck had the potential to run out. Like an automobile running clean out of gas, Overstreet felt their target would eventually run out of tactics. His days were numbered. Several yards away, near the banks of the creek, Dr. Anthony McKinnis collected samples from the mutilated body parts. 
       “Don’t wanna sound like a worn out recording, but whaddaya have, Doc McKinnis?” 
       “Actually, detective, it’s become a worn out recording. Our perp seems to keep traveling in the same circles.” 
       “Whaddaya mean, doc?” 
       “For starters, these bodies were mutilated in the same fashion as the first two vics found here in Brush Creek. Hopefully, blood samples from our perp will give us solid leads.” 
       “You think our perp used the same instrument to dismember these bodies?” 
       “Not think, detective, I know these things to be factual.” 
       “This maniac is making all of us look bad.” 
       “Once we transport the bodies to the morgue, I’ll know one-hundred percent for sure.” 
       “And from what you can see thus far, these are two separate bodies put in four separate trashbags?” 
       “Correct.” 
       “Females again?” 
       “Definitely females.” 
       “Tell me, doc, how long have the bodies been down here in the creek? Could you give me an approximate time frame?” 
       Dr. McKinnis shook his head with ultimate suspense. “I’d say, uh, about three to three-and-a-half weeks. Maybe longer, maybe shorter. Post mortem and DNA should be able to give me some precise time frames. These predators around Brush Creek will eat just about anything to survive, especially during the Winter months. My observation tells me that they had already dined on these mutilated corpses.” 
       “And these predators possibly being possums and coons and maybe even rabbits?” 
       “Correct, detective. It’s even possible that the fish in the creek water feasted on the corpses.” 
       “Doc, when will you have something definite for me?” 
       “Couple’a days should be sufficient.” 
       “Appreciate your help once again, doc.” 
       “It’s what I’m here for.” 
       Before wrapping up the scene, Overstreet consulted with Carey. “Carey, anything of use to us around here?” 
       “Nothing, Jerry.”  
       “You’ve heard me say it before, but this animal is not of this world. Maybe we should’ve kept officers on post after our two guys were attacked.” 
       “Something tells me that it gives this prick a hard-on everytime he outsmarts us. He makes his moves at the exact precise time. How many more women are going to have to turn up murdered and mutilated before we catch up with him?” 
       “We’ve asked ourselves that question many times before.” 
       “We can only hope that we’ll get our answer before somebody else is found dead here in Brush Creek.” 
       “He knows how to space time between the murders. This scumbag is one of our cold, calculated killers who’s got everything down to a direct science. We post up two of our best officers down here in Brush Creek and he fights his way past them.” 
       “Not to mention killing one of our best canines with his bare hands.” 
       “The air unit did no good in helping us apprehend the sonofabitch.” 
       “This catch-me-if-you-can bullshit game is starting to sicken me to the core of my stomach. After this is over with, I’ll end up bald with a bloated belly and on every type of medication.” 
       “The mayor and his city council cronies are starting to bite at our asses.” 
       “Our funds for the fiscal year are soon to be exhausted.” 
       “Gosh, we’re fighting crime on a shoestring budget.” 
       “Manpower is the last thing we need to fall short of.” 
       “Something tells me that this creep is right under our noses. Either we’re too stupid to realize it, or he knows how to make a mockery out of guys like us.” 
       “We’re more intelligent that he’ll ever realize. There’s still a chance to prove it.” 
       “Then why’s he still running around free as a bird?” 
       “Like we both said, our day will come.” 
       “That day’s not coming soon enough.” 
       Overstreet and Carey both ached deep inside from not getting the clues they yearned so desperately for. Detectives of their caliber were far from quitting. There were no quitters in their camp. A madman who viciously violated women with impunity had to be caught. For them, for the entire KCPD, it’d become a win at all expense. For answers, they’d long hungered for them. The cases of the Brush Creek and Gillham Park killings were to be pursued with fanatical determination. 
  CHAPTER—42 
       Sandy Barnholtz and Carol Wexler arranged yet another hostile meeting with the radical women of S.A.V.E. Their unexpressed rage escalated to meteoric heights. Their anger became bottomless. For the Sisters Against Violent Encounters, women being murdered and mutilated, then thrown into large trashbags like useless garbage, was totally unacceptable in a so-called moral society. Where did the madness end? Did the ends ever justify the means? Who’d be the source to bring this disgusting animal to justice?  
       Enough was enough. A group of more than forty women filled the front room and dining room of Sandy and Carol’s residence. Refreshments and drinks were set out for the guests. This was their chance to blow off more steam. Women buying guns shot to record sales. The smart ones had sophisticated alarm systems installed. The more clever ones kept their doors locked at every hour of the morning and night. Their children played outside with scrupulous adult supervision. Some even slept at night with their firearms curled in their hands. 
       A new member decided to join the esteemed women of S.A.V.E. Colleen Stone took the initiative to become an active member of the radical, yet sensible all women’s group. Not because she was a lesbian herself, but she wanted to join for all the right reasons.  
       Sandy would be the host who introduced their latest member. “Alright, ladies, we’re going to go ahead and get started. Sisters Against Violent Encounters would like to take this opportunity and introduce our newest member. She is a college graduate and is currently working on her master’s degree at UMKC. She comes to us from New York City and resides near the midtown neighborhood of Hyde Park. Ladies, may I present to you, Miss Colleen Stone.” 
       Colleen arose from her seat while other members received her with gracious applauses. A sea of smiling faces eminated an aura for a sense of belonging. 
       “Colleen, would you like to say a few words?” Sandy said as to open the floor to her. 
       Colleen cleared the kinks out of her throat. “Thank you guys for that warm reception. It means so much to be welcomed with open arms by so many nice women. As Sandy already told you, I hail from New York City. I’ve taken up temporary-to-permanent residency here in Kansas City, Missouri while working on my master’s degree in fine arts. It’s a privilege to be inducted as a member of S.A.V.E.” 
       Light applauses were followed by her brief speech. 
       The meeting kicked into full gear.  
       Sandy turned and ejected a coming out smile at Colleen. “Ladies, Colleen has a brief story she’d like to share with you guys.” 
       Colleen pulled in a short breath. “Walking through Gillham Park with my dog one early morning, I stumbled upon a dead body. My dog behaved strangely as we neared some bushes alongside a dirt trail. At first, I thought it was someone sleeping on the ground. Being from New York, I’m used to seeing people sleeping on the sidewalks and in alleys. The body was nude and I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman because of their strong build.” 
       Colleen paused momentarily to soothe her dry throat. Sandy handed her a chilled water and she continued. “I explained all of this to the police before telling anyone else. I’d heard about all the recent killings in Gillham Park and Brush Creek, and had been warned about crime in the neighborhood. The strange part about the whole ordeal came when I spotted a guy hiding off in the bushes when my dog and I spotted the nude body. Though he was at a distance, this guy had one of the ugliest faces anyone could’ve ever looked upon, like what you’d call a ‘nightmare-of-a-face’. I explained it to the police and was told he might’ve been the man responsible for the Brush Creek killings. It disturbed me to learn that the woman found in Gillham Park was suffocated after mud and debris was forced down her throat. I’d warn any of you guys to protect yourselves by any means possible.” 
       Both adjoining rooms responded with amiable applauses. Colleen took a seat and Sandy came back to the podium. 
       “We’re gracious to Colleen for sharing that story with us,” Sandy spoke honorably. “Joining S.A.V.E. will be one of the smartest things you’ve ever done. We, the members of Sisters Against Violent Encounters, are a contained group, a bond of sisterhood unbreakable by any outside forces. Til death do all of us part, we’re joined in this cause to connect all of womanhood for the betterment of our society. Ladies, it’s an unfortunate tragedy that two more women were found in trashbags floating in the creek waters of Brush Creek. Even more tragic, like the two women found before them, their bodies were mutilated. Their legs and arms were amputated like raw pieces of meat. Senselessly, yet another body has been found in Gillham Park, the victim suffocated with dirt and sticks and rocks. Ladies, we’re here tonight to let our city, to let our state, to let our country know that we’ve had enough. As long as these creeps are on the loose, there’s still a chance more bodies will turn up in Brush Creek and Gillham Park.” 
       Carol moved in front of Sandy. “Ladies, we’re not dealing with ordinary human beings here. These bastards are absolutely heartless, most certainly void of souls. Sandy and I hosted the prayer vigil for the slain women of Gillham Park. Sandy possibly spotted the man who’s responsible for the Brush Creek killings. Yes, she spotted that ‘nightmare-of-a-face’ that the two police officers came upon the night he attacked them and killed their police canine, even possibly the same sicko who Colleen spotted. In fact, Sandy believes she spotted him Thanksgiving night during the Plaza Lighting Ceremony.” 
       Loretta Fredericks, the true outspoken soul sister of S.A.V.E., shot her arm into the air. “Then, why didn’t you go to the police so they can take this psychotic sonofabitch off the streets? Women’s lives are depending on you, Sandy, and that’s the bottom line.” 
       “You’re absolutely correct, Loretta,” Sandy admitted, her voice quenched with regret. “At first, I was confused about the whole situation. Because of my procrastination, other women have turned up dead. Please don’t make me out to be a villan or nothing, but if I could lead the police straight to this motherfucker, I’d surely do so. The night I was almost attacked and raped down in Brush Creek, the same night my dog Bolo was killed by this psychopath, I should’ve marched right into police headquarters and told them what happened. But no, I just had to let this shitbag make a clean getaway. If anyone wants to use me as a dartboard, then go right ahead. But now, I believe I know who this guy is and where he lives and works. I’m on a mission. I’m stupidly determined to help the police catch him.” 
       Sandy received a few disappointed stares from the audience. 
       She felt every reason to beat upon herself. 
       “Don’t beat up on yourself, Sandy,” Carol interjected to her prized lesbian lover. “We’ll make a concerted effort to work with the police to bring this butthole to justice. We’ll be there to watch prison officers deliver his ass straight to the execution room.” 
       “Lethal injection would be too good for him. It’s too quick of a death, like putting somebody to sleep right away.” 
       Shannon Murphy thrusted her arm in the air. “Criminal Justice, I studied it while in college. The Brush Creek and Gillham Park killers are changing their mode of operations. They change their patterns to keep from tipping off the cops.” 
       Cynthia Garrington grunted from the midst of the crowd. “The women found killed in Brush Creek and Gillham Park, they came from different backgrounds, but neither of them had boyfriends or husbands and were pretty much on their own.” 
       Sheena Sawyer hissed from the back of the room. “The killers of these women, I’ll bet they’re obsessed with overpowering them. Let’s be real here, most men are obsessed with controlling women, makes them feel more macho and manly. Whoever goes around cutting up their bodies have sadistic fantasies. They feel good about ending their lives.” 
       “After three abusive marriages, I can relate to what you’re talking about,” Nancy Parker confessed before her radically feminist colleagues. “My second husband tried choking me to death with a strap after I refused to engage in anal sex. My third and final husband, he promised to kill me if I ever refused to stay with him. He wanted to control every move I made. Men are and will always be a part of my distant past. I have no use for them and get sick at the sight of them.” 
       Every member of S.A.V.E. related to what Nancy was saying.  
       Men were the enemies. All men paid for what a few men had done to women. 
       The male species were the filth of the Earth. Privately or openly, most women had no respect for them, and only dealt with them on a brief business basis. 
       “The monstrosity of these crimes are senseless,” Sandy chimed back in. “These killers are prepared to destroy anything or anyone who gets in their way. They possess a blind selfishness capable of anything.” 
       “Ladies, we must work together to bring these monsters to justice,” Carol added. 
       “Once I find out the exact location of this filthbag, I plan on taking the whole KCPD with me. He appears and disappears, and then he re-appears. It’s about to drive me out of my mind. For the sake of saving more lives, I’m coming at this bastard full speed ahead.” 
       The meeting of S.A.V.E. had been adjourned. The women emerged from their seats to dive into the snacks and drinks. 
       Two hours following the meeting among the women of S.A.V.E., Sandy and Carol and others constructed protest signs to express their views on the recent Brush Creek and Gillham Park killings. This time, Brush Creek became the prime location to stage their protest. A group of just over fifty women marched around in circles near the intersection of Brush Creek Boulevard and Benton Boulevard.  
       “We want justice! Find the killers now!” the group of women chanted in militant voices. 
       Media sources got tipped off and showed up with their cameras and reporters.  
       At the forefront of the protest, Sandy and Carol held up signs with the message:  WOMEN ARE HUMAN! STOP THE KILLING NOW! 
       A reporter approached Sandy with her microphone aimed at her mouth. “Mam, could you tell News Channel Seven about this protest here around Brush Creek?” 
       The women’s voices got louder by the minute. 
       “We’re tired of all the killing,” Sandy shot off in a civil rage. “We’re tired of women turning up dead with their legs and arms amputated from their bodies, and then thrown into trashbags like animal carcasses. We’re tired of women being found dead with mud and sticks and rock and other foreign substances shoved down their throats.” 
       “I see some of these signs with the acronym S.A.V.E. written on them. Could you tell us what it stands for?” 
       “It stands for Sisters Against Violent Encounters.” 
       “What is the basis for your organization?” 
       “We’re a non-profit organization dedicated to the safety and empowerment of women.” 
       “How long have you been in operation?” 
       “Five years now.” 
       “Has your organization had any success bringing justice to the family of any of the victims?” 
       “We’re coming real close to helping solve the Brush Creek killings. It’s just a matter of time before the perpetrator is brought to justice.” 
       Sandy turned away from the reporter. A man, some stranger wearing a thick parka and black wool cap covering half of his face, weaved through the group of women. Try as he might, he couldn’t conceal his identity from Sandy. The conniving bastard just couldn’t stop showing up. He couldn’t stop playing games. Could it have been Sandy was the victim who got away? Nobody escaped the wrath of Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli. The wicked ego he’d been cursed with spinned way out of control. 
       “Chaaaaaaaaaaaarlie!” Sandy yelled, her voice having echoed through the hollow confines of Brush Creek. 
       The strange man accelerated his footsteps. Sandy started a high-speed, high-adrenalin chase.  
       “Charlie, I know that’s you, you sonofabitch!” Sandy yelled once again, her pitch ringing out amongst the women of S.A.V.E. 
       The man in the well-insulated parka and black wool cap ran like a sprinter headed to the finish line. Sandy put some real force in her race towards the man she recognized so well.  
       “Goddammit, Charlie, you can’t run forever!” she screamed out, confrontationally. 
       Carol and the others noticed Sandy chasing after some man who appeared harmless. Her pursuit of him grew more intense. Her speed shifted to a heartpounding rate. He disappeared from within her eyesight. The chase ended in such an embarrassingly abrupt manner. 
       “Charlie, I know you were the one who killed those two women they just found a few days ago in Brush Creek! You can run, you bastard, but you can’t hide forever!” 
       Carol swung Sandy around to where their faces met. “Babe, what the hell’s going on this time?” 
       “That bastard!” Sandy huffed in long hard breaths. “Carol, he’s fucking with me again!” 
       “How?” 
       “Showing up at the opportune time to make a goddamned mockery out of me!” 
       “Are you sure he’s the same guy?” 
       “Even with the wool cap covering most of his face, I could tell that that was him. I could spot that ‘nightmare-of-a-face’ in the darkest of rooms.” 
       “Just to prove what?” 
       “That he shows up when he knows I’m going to be in public.” 
       “You’re talking like this guy’s psychic or something.” 
       “Carol, I’m being watched by this maniac. We’re being watched by this sewage puke. Babe, it’s all coming together now.” 
       “I’d like to know, what’s coming together?” 
       “He’s still after me. He didn’t get the satisfaction of killing me that night I had Bolo with me down here in Brush Creek. The light came on in my mind, telling me that he’s one of those killers whose ego is bigger than a stretched limousine.” 
       “Your revelations are starting to frighten me.” 
       “We have a prayer vigil at Gillham Park, he shows up out of nowhere. We come out for The Plaza Lighting Ceremony, there he is in the thick of the crowd. We the women of S.A.V.E. stage this protest here in Brush Creek, he blends in with the women holding their protest signs. Something tells me that he’s keeping score, and he’s minus a point since I didn’t become one of his victims.” 
       “What’re you going to do, Sandy? What’re we going to do?” 
       “This time, Carol, I’m playing for keeps,” Sandy said with a stone face. “My first trip tomorrow will be to the Internal Revenue Service. Once I get what I want from there, my next trip will be to the downtown headquarters of the Kansas City, Missouri Police Department.” 
       “The IRS and the KCPD? Babe, I don’t get it.” 
       “Remember the guy we met at the celebrity impersonator show that night in Missy D’s?” 
       “Who, the black guy?” 
       “Yes, the gay black guy with the white guy for a boyfriend.” 
       “Where does he come into the picture?” 
       “In his conversation that night, he brought up the name ‘Charlie’. The name resonated so strongly with me. To top it all off, he mentioned the fact that this Charlie was a Vietnam War Veteran with a really bad complexion.” 
       “Where’re you going with all of this?” 
       “The same night he killed Bolo and tried to rape and kill me, before any of that took place, he told me that he was a Vietnam War Veteran.” 
       “Ask yourself this, how many guys in K.C. are named Charlie who served time Vietnam?” 
       A swift rendition popped inside the head of Sandy. 
       “Besides being named Charlie, besides having a badly-pitted face, and besides having served time in Vietnam, I’d have to say just one.” 
       “Honey, we’ve had this conversation before.” 
       “And we’re right back to square one.” 
       “Like still moving in the same circles.” 
       “On the soul of my mother and father, and on the soul of my Jewish heritage, before another woman turns up dead here in Brush Creek, the police are going to be taking this scum-puke away in shackles. Babe, I’ve fucking had enough! The night I spotted him on The Plaza during the lighting ceremony, I believe the woman he was with was the same woman they found a few days ago in the creek water. So, for the honor and dignity of the women who died at his hands, I’m going to help the police end his killing escapades.” 
       Sandy said what she meant. She meant what she said. Could the Brush Creek killer now become the hunted one? If Sandy Barnholtz had her way, he’d become the hunted and the dead one. 
  CHAPTER—43 
       A humongous clock hanging from the Twentieth Century decorated walls of The Union Station lobby on Pershing Road read exactly 9:15 a.m. Before the big crowd of elementary school kids visited the station for the science city activities, Sandy traveled through the lobby and down a set of long stairs leading to a section to purchase tickets. On display were the famous paintings of Andy Warhol. Sandy looked down a long hallway and noticed a huge painting of Marilyn Monroe behind a set of protective bars. 
       The true diva moviestar of the sixties always captivated her. According to her own fantasies, had she not picked Carol Wexler as her lifelong lesbian partner, Marilyn would’ve been her top choice of women to fall in love with. She stepped past a set of glass doors and onto a long walkway leading to a building connected to levels of parking space. Workers employed by the postal service came out of the building parking lot. What sad faces they sported in the early morning hours. 
       Sandy always knew working for the post office wasn’t the most pleasant job, though the pay did enough to keep them satisfied. Those were moments she never wanted to get caught up in. She arrived at the front doors of the unfamiliar building and went for the elevators. Once inside, she pushed the button for T, which meant straight for the tunnel. The elevator doors opened. Through a set of solid wooden doors was the station where all the guards for the IRS checked in daily for their guns and walkie talkies.  
       The monitors flashed almost every square inch of space around the inside and outside of the IRS building. Sandy noticed a long line of people. The Treasury Department sure had its way of bringing different cultures together. She walked up to the guard’s desk with the most uncertain look on her face. Sets of wandering eyes went in every direction. There to greet her at the desk was a guard with skin as dark as fresh coal from the mines of West Virginia. No one could’ve been prouder to have teeth as white as his. 
       “Hello mam, how might I help you?” the guard said to Sandy, flirtatious overtones to follow. 
       Sandy didn’t know he had a hidden fetish for attractive white women. Sorry, but Sandy was one white woman who was off limits. 
       “Yes, I’m trying to locate someone here at the IRS named Derrick Thomas.” 
       The name Derrick Thomas registered with the guard right away. The name actually rung in his head like the loudest Christmas bells. 
       The guard flipped open a registry for employees and individual departments. He ran his finger down the list and found the person of interest. “Uh, Derrick works in data conversion. Can I ask who you are?” 
       “My name’s Sandy Barnholtz.” 
       “Jewish?” 
       “Till the day I die.” 
       “My ex-wife’s name was Sandy,” the guard hinted, volunteering stuff Sandy cared less about. 
       He punched in the numbers and got a quick response. “Derrick, there’s a Sandy Barnholtz down here at the guard’s desk to see you.” 
       Derrick spoke into the phone with surprise. “Sandy Barnholtz? I don’t know nobody by that name.” 
       “Well, c’mon down here and see who she is.” 
       “Are you asking me, or are you telling me?” 
       “Both, now get on down here.” 
       Derrick and the guard knew one another well enough to joke around in such a fashion. Sandy parked herself against the wall across from the long line of patiently waiting people. Derrick and Mitchell came through the revolving glass doors. Sandy recognized them at first sight. Neither of them recognized her after looking around at the sea of uncertain faces. Seconds after their entry, their diehard co-worker and partying friend, Kathy Lowell, fell in right behind them.  
       Talk about having a shadow, she single-handedly casted enough shadows for all three of them. They still teased her about being the white girl who should’ve been born a black woman. Between blasting off inner-city jive talk, having an ass just as shapely as most black women, and shooting off heated attitude, she met all the requirements of being African-American. Sandy dissected the trio as they moved around the line of people. Sure would’ve been nice if Derrick came down into the tunnel section of the IRS building all my himself. 
       “Sandy?” Derrick named off, not certain she was the right woman.  
       “Derrick?” Sandy retorted, Derrick’s face conjuring up a quick memory. 
       “Yes, it’s me,” he smiled, picking apart every feature on her face. 
       “The celebrity impersonator show at Missy D’s sound familiar?” 
       “Yes, I remember now. You sat at the table right over from us.” 
       “Carol and I were close to you guys that night.” 
       “Well, darling, what can I do for you?” 
       Sandy took a quick glance at Mitchell and Kathy. “You guys mind if we talk in privacy?” 
       Derrick gazed at his two sidekicks. “Mitch and Kathy, you two mind if we speak alone?” 
       “Huh, what’s with all this privacy stuff?” Kathy smarted off, rolling her eyes in pompous motions. 
       “Just give myself and this lady a few mintues to talk.” 
       Mitchell pulled Kathy by the arm. The hint was for them to give Derrick some space. “C’mon, Kathy, let’s give them some time to converse. We’ve got plenty of work to get done upstairs.” 
       “We’ll be in the cafeteria at lunchtime,” Kathy cued to Derrick. 
       “See ya at lunchtime.” 
       Mitchell and Kathy slithered around the long line and returned upstairs.  
       “My, my, you must be famous or something,” Sandy joked, anxious to get on with the business-at-hand. 
       “Mitch and Kathy are the last two people who still care about me. Both might seem overly protective, but they do mean well. As for Mitch, he’s my lifetime partner. Do you know what I mean?” 
       “Sure, I have a lifetime partner, also.” 
       “It’s a great feeling.” 
       “Can we go outside to talk?” 
       “Outside sounds good.” 
       Derrick and Sandy drifted down the long tunnel hallway. Derrick gentlemanly opened the glass door for Sandy and they walked a few yards down the concrete pathway. More postal workers emerged from the parking area with the word “regret” molded to their faces. Several turned to give Derrick and Sandy looks that were lethal enough rip their hearts into tiny shreds.  
       “I’m curious, how’d you find me?” Derrick asked Sandy, flipping out a fresh pack of cigarettes. 
       “Wasn’t hard at all,” Sandy responded. “The night we were at Missy D’s, you must’ve talked about the IRS a million times. I had remembered that your name was Derrick and that you worked for the IRS.” 
       “How’d you get my last name?” 
       “Someone wants something bad enough, it all comes real natural.” 
       “Please don’t tell me that you’re with the investigative unit within the Treasury Department. Over the years, I’ve never cheated on my taxes or stole anything from the IRS.” 
       “Don’t be silly,” Sandy snickered. “Never would I give the federal government the satisfaction of putting somebody in jail, not unless they really deserved it.” 
       “Are you with the FBI, the CIA, the DEA, or the INS? Honey, I’ve never stolen classified documents from the government. Plus, I’ve never passed on secrets to foreign governments. And drugs, I’ve never sold a bag of weed or packets of cocaine or rocks of crack. Lastly, darling, I was born and raised in the United States of America.” 
       “Hee! Hee!” Sandy giggled from her chest. “None of those government agencies am I affiliated with. Stop worrying about me being some secret undercover agent trying to bust you.” 
       Derrick could’ve had skeletons that only he and government knew about. 
       “Then, why are you here? A strange woman showing up at my job scares me into wanting to go straight.” 
       “Straight as in?” 
       “Straight as in having a woman to be my lover and my lifetime partner.” 
       “Actually, I’m here to inquire about someone you mentioned at Missy D’s the night of the celebrity impersonator show.” 
       “Who’s this someone?” 
       “Charlie, but don’t remember his last name.” 
       “Charlie?” Derrick shook in amazement. “Charlie Rastelli?” 
       “Yes, I believe that’s him.” 
       “Charlie who lives at The Rosenburg on The Plaza?” 
       “A Vietnam War veteran?” 
       “Yes, Charlie is a Vietnam War veteran who served two tour of duties over there. How do you know so much about him?” 
       “He’s a cold-blooded, calculated killer.” 
       “Say what!” 
       “The four women found murdered and mutilated down in Brush Creek, I believe he’s responsible for all four all of them.” 
       “Mam, are you sure?” 
       “Call me Sandy, please. Derrick, I’m surer than sure. He tried to attack and kill me one night down in Brush Creek. My dog Bolo, I watched him kill the poor thing with his bare hands.” 
       “Why are you just now coming forward with this information?” 
       The regrets weighed real heavy on Sandy. She could’ve been a lifesaver in the end. 
       “It’s eating me up inside. For awhile, I didn’t want to falsely accuse just anybody. But now, I believe that Charlie is the one who killed those four women.” 
       “Which includes Lisa Wallace who used to work here at the IRS?” 
       “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sandy shouted three times. “She was his first victim.” 
       “The Charlie we’re talking about, does he have a badly-pitted face?” 
       “A nightmare-of-a-face,” Sandy confirmed, a face she wished she could’ve forgotten. “Looks like his skin was ravaged by severe acne or something.” 
       “Actually, Charlie developed that bad skin condition from being in Vietnam.” 
       “How?” 
       “Those chemicals they’d been spraying over there in Vietnam, I believe he told me and my partner that they were the reason why he ended up having such a bad complexion. He explained to Mitchell and I that neither his mother nor father had skin problems.” 
       “Bad skin or good skin, he’s a psychotic killer. Derrick, I’m asking for your help, please.” 
       “What do you need for me to do?” 
       “Take myself and the KCPD straight to his apartment.” 
       “The entire police force?” 
       “No, but at least a few detectives and a handful of police officers. This man is dangerous and I’m sure he has to be approached with caution.” 
       “When do you need for me to take you to his apartment?” 
       “After I go down to headquarters and talk with detectives in homicide and some police officers.” 
       “When do you plan on doing this?” 
       “As soon as possible.” 
       “Sounds like the right thing to do.”  
       “He has to be stopped before another mutilated body turns up in trashbags down in Brush Creek.” 
       The mentioning of trashbags jingled hard inside the head of Derrick. His memory by association thrusted into full brain power. “Trashbags? It’s all coming back to me.” 
       “Does trashbags remind you of something?” 
       “Several times, I ran into Charlie coming out of his apartment, carrying large trashbags at like two and three o’clock in the morning.” 
       “That’s it! That’s it!” Sandy hailed with turbo-boosted adrenalin. “The bodies of those dismembered women were inside those trashbags!” 
       “My suspicions were aroused, but I never thought enough of it to try and investigate. None of the other people at The Rosenburg carried trash out during the early morning hours. From looking at the bulges sticking out from the sides of those trashbags, I knew something heavy was inside. Plus, Charlie acted scarier everytime he ran into either me or Mitchell carrying those bags outside.” 
       “Did you ever smell anything foul or disgusting?” 
       “If I did, I never thought anything of it. Trash smells like trash and I’d simply ignore it.” 
       “Derrick, we’ve gotta move fast.” 
       “How about I go down to headquarters with you?” 
       “Splendid idea.” 
       “Charlie’s one sicko sonofabitch.” 
       “I believe he’s still after me.” 
       “Why do you believe that?” 
       “On three separate occasions, he’s shown up out of nowhere.” 
       “Out of nowhere? How?” 
       “First, he shows up at a prayer vigil we’re having for the victims of the Gillham Park murders. Second, he shows up among the crowd at The Plaza Lighting Ceremony. Third, he shows up at a rally-protest that my women’s group have for the murdered victims of the Brush Creek killings.” 
       “You belong to a women’s group?” 
       “Yes, it’s called S.A.V.E.” 
       “S.A.V.E.?” 
       “Stands for Sisters Against Violent Encounters.” 
       “How clever, Sandy. How insightful, how invigorating, and how intuitive.” 
       “Nice choice of words. So, you’re with me?” 
       “With you until the doggone end, darling. What’s the latest on the Gillham Park murders?” 
       “Still not enough clues to bringing the killer to justice.” 
       “Black women are turning up dead all the time in that park.” 
       “And we’re dead tired of it, too. Women’s outrage will soon turn to vengeance.” 
       “Motherfuckers just don’t have any regard for human life! I say, take the sonofabitches off the streets, put them in a cell with big rats and cockroaches, feed them sewer slop everyday, come in and beat their asses with bats and pipes, and then talk to them like they were less than human beings. The crimes they committed were less than human.” 
       “You put it so delicately.” 
       “And meant every word of it, too.” 
       Sandy showed Derrick her serious, militant side. 
       Sandy dug into her jeans pocket and produced a means of contact. “Derrick, here’s my card, so you can get into contact with me.” 
       “Sisters Against Violent Encounters,” Derrick read to himself. “Ladies, you don’t have to be a victim. You can be the victor. Such a strong message behind a clever acronym. Can you remember my number?” 
       Sandy fished around in her pockets and came up with her cell phone. “Okay, go ahead and give it to me.” 
       “753-4410.” 
       “Got it.” 
       “When you’re ready to make a move, please give me a call. In the meantime, I’ll be keeping a real close eye on Charlie.” 
       “Not a split-second later.” 
       Derrick and Sandy had now forged a partnership to hopefully save future lives. Time was truly of the essence. Them joining forces was crucial. The forces of good challenged the forces of evil. They were close to stopping the murderous cycle fueled by a psychotic, shell-shocked Vietnam War Veteran. 
  CHAPTER—44 
       Dr. Anthony McKinnis of the Jackson County Medical Examiner’s Office had plenty of answers to pour on top of Overstreet. He sure appreciated all the hard work and dedication shown by Dr. McKinnis during such times of murderous escapades. One body of a murder victim turned up after another. Being in the game of solving homicides, Overstreet knew killers never took days off. But one killer he so desperately wanted to retire was the Brush Creek killer. How the maniac had gotten away for this length of time still puzzled him to no end. 
       To him, garbage thrown out everyday by people got more respect. No positive identifications were made on either of the two victims. On top of two separate autopsy tables, Dr. McKinnis had set both badly-dismembered torsos on top. The limbs of the victims were placed on top of the small-parts dissection table. Overstreet couldn’t help but notice the cuts and burn marks across the torso of the other victim. A tattoo of someone’s name bursting into an open heart had been designed into the right arm of the opposite victim. 
       “Alright, Doc,” Overstreet hooted, trying to circumvent dangerous levels of frustration. “I’m afraid to ask, but are we possibly dealing with the same perp as before?” 
       “The answer remains the same,” Dr. McKinnis affixed. “Unfortunately, our perp is right back to his old games, the same tricks he’s been accustomed to for a long time.” 
       “Two bodies found within close proximity in the Brush Creek waters, it’s more than just a coincidence, Doc.” 
       “I have the medical evidence to back up your conclusions.” 
       “Like what?” 
       Overstreet stretched out a pair of surgical gloves and placed them over both hands.  
       Dr. McKinnis closed in on the victim’s torsos with two beaming lamps. “Detective, after X-rays and multiple photographs, and one exam after another, both of our vics here suffered from ligature strangulation. The veins in their necks were severely compressed, which interrupted normal arterial blood flow to their brains and hearts. Hands as strong as vice grips crushed their spinal cords and dislocated their vertebraes.” 
       “So, his killing methods are the same. The purplish marks around their necks were, of course, caused by the strangulation itself.” 
       “Correct you are, detective. It gets even more interesting. I collected blood and urine samples from both vics, sending them off to the lab for toxicology reports.” 
       “Did the lab find anything of interest?” 
       “Should be of interest to all parties involved. Traces of Agent Orange were found in blood samples from our perp. Trace amounts of the toxic contaminant Dioxin showed up heavily concentrated in those very samples. As I explained to you before, detective, that dioxin contains carcinogenic or teratogenic heterocyclic which occurs as impurities in the body.” 
       “Our perp is without a doubt a war veteran. Question, doc.” 
       “Okay.” 
       “Is there any chance that our perp suffers from a skin condition like acne or blackheads or cysts?” 
       “Enormous chance, detective. Traces of the chemical substance chloracne were found in the blood sample.” 
       “Explain to me what chloracne is.” 
       “Chloracne is a skin condition marked by blackheads and pimples in people who are in contact with chemical compounds such as cutting oils, paints, varnishes, and dioxin. The condition usually affects the face, arms, neck, and any other exposed areas.” 
       “Would you say that when he killed both of them by strangulation, that his blood possibly mixed with their’s, possibly dropping down onto some of their body parts?” 
       “Precisely, since he could’ve suffered a skin laceration during his attack on the vics.” 
       Overstreet reached into his memory bank. “Doc, could you tell me if the perp is dying from cancer or some other type of ailment?” 
       “Very strong possibility. With a high exposure to Dioxin from the Agent Orange, he’s possibly at the highest level of cancer.” 
       “Therefore, he could be dying slowly.” 
       Dr. McKinnis fished up a chart from the lab. “Doesn’t stop there, detective. Our perp suffers from PTSD.” 
       “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?” 
       “Correct, my friend.” 
       “How do you know that?” 
       “Toxicology reports show high concentration levels of anti-depressant medications.” 
       “With all the murders he’s committed, it’s a wonder if he takes his medications like he should. Did toxicology say which anti-depressant medications this monster was on?” 
       “Xanax and Prozac, just to name a couple.” 
       “Could it be that these drugs have caused more harm than good?” 
       “Studies have proven that some of the side effects are suicide, hallucinations, deeper depression, illusions, shakiness, and fatigue.” 
       “Those illusions and hallucinations could’ve led him to have flashbacks of his time in Vietnam, which could’ve led him to murder these women.” 
       “Could be quite conclusive, detective.” 
       “Makes you wonder, who’s really to blame? Can we blame these soliders who come back from war all screwed up, or can we blame the same government who sends them to war on foreign battlefields? He’s responsible for all the Brush Creek murders.” 
       Overstreet didn’t want to sound disrespectful to the government, but their person of interest had no respect for human life. Chopping up women and putting them in trashbags, it shattered the image of a society in which people were supposed to be civil and sane. 
       “Doc, what’d you find out about their amputation or dismemberment?” 
       “Same as other vics found in Brush Creek,” Dr. McKinnis disclosed. He moved the lamps closer to the where Overstreet got the best view of the amputations, starting with the limbs.     “Our perp knows how to cut and where to cut. As with other vics, if you’ll notice here around the Pectoralis Majors, and on up to the Sternocleidomastoid muscles, the process of dissecting the limbs away from the body were created. Now, the process of dissecting the lower limbs away from the body occurred when the Quadriceps femoris and Tibalis anteriors were sliced into.” 
       “The weapon of choice?” 
       “The deep effective penetration of the skin and muscles and bones came only from a Full Tang Monster Machete, the same kind used over in the jungles of Vietnam to chop away tall vegetation.” 
       “The same instrument used to mutilate the bodies of the other vics?” 
       “Right again, detective. The serrated blade of this machete has the power to cut through tough metal alloys. Imagine how effective it is when used to dismember human bodies?” 
       “You’re right, Doc. First, he strangles them with his bare hands. Second, he dismembers their bodies. Third, and possibly last, he throws the body parts into large, industrial-strength trashbags, and then dumps them into Brush Creek.” 
       “His modus operandi appears to be the same everytime.” 
       “Anything else of significance that I need to know about either of our vics?” 
       Dr. McKinnis brushed off his green surgical scrubs from excess debris. “Our first vic is a white female, middle twenties, well-nourished, who appears to have led a semi-clean lifestyle. Toxicology found no traces of narcotics in her system, but there was a heavy concentration of alcohol in her blood.” 
       “Could’ve been a heavy social drinker?” 
       “It’s possible.” 
       “Is it possible that she died on or around Thanksgiving day?” 
       “Given her blood alcohol content, it’s a strong possibility.” 
       “Our second vic, what’s her story?” 
       “Not good, detective,” Dr. McKinnis denounced. “My autopsy exam indicates she was a ‘Lady of the Night’. Heavy traces of narcotics were found in her system. Needles marks along her arms, paraphernalia burns on her fingers, and results from the lab, told me that she’d been using both heroin and crack. Blood samples proved that she’d been HIV positive. Genital herpes were found all around her genitals.” 
       “Not the exact type of woman you’d wanna pick up. Her drug and alcohol levels were at an all-time high. If that psychotic parasite didn’t kill her first, the streets would’ve done so. My guess is that she came from off of Independence Avenue. Look Doc, how soon can you have both autopsy reports for me?” 
       “No later than tomorrow.” 
       “We can’t afford to let another body turn up in Brush Creek. The mayor and the chief have started to saddle up the department and they’re riding us like Broncos. The people of the city are starting to complain to the heavy guys up there in Washington. The autopsy reports for the Gillham Park vics, how’re they coming along?” 
       “My office is backed up, but we’ve put top priorities on those reports.” 
       “These cases can’t turn up cold on us. This insanity has got to stop.” 
       “We’re doing our best, detective.” 
       “A magnificent job you’re doing. See you tomorrow, doc.” 
       “Tomorrow it is.” 
   
   
   
   
       Leaving the Harry S. Truman Medical Center, Overstreet had come towards the emergency room. Sights going into the emergency room were grotesquely sad. Mainly African-Americans, the victims were inches from death. Some were rushed in on gurneys after being shot, stabbed, burned or beaten. Others were victims of car accidents and animal bites. There’d been no end to black-on-black crime. In Kansas City, Missouri and beyond, blacks destroyed one another at alarming rates.  
       Overstreet stationed his body in the hallway just across from the emergency room.  
       “Code ninety-nine, shock-trauma unit! Code ninety-nine, shock-trauma unit!” shouted a pair of veteran nurses, as they rushed a shooting victim inside the emergency room.  
       “Everybody clear!” a hyped surgeon ordered, the nurses signaling they’d been ready. 
       “Check vital signs.” 
       “IVs ready to be inserted.” 
       More bodies ended up inside the morgue in one year at the Harry S. Truman Medical Center than people visiting an amusement park in a day’s time. The scenario grew sadder. Where did the law fall short? Overstreet exited the hospital en route to headquarters to dive back into current homicide cases. 
  CHAPTER—45 
       Positive identifications were made of the latest two victims of the Brush Creek killer. DNA evidence was linked to the filth who’d been going around killing and dumping black women along bushes and trails in Gillham Park. Had Overstreet and the homicide division at the KCPD headquarters made any progress? Time was surely the answer to such a question. Overstreet and Carey and others learned how one of their victims had been identified as Amy Alex, a Chicago native who’d been camping around Kansas City for several years. 
       The other victim was identified as Chloe Harden. Chloe made a name for herself along the corridors of Independence Avenue. A known drug addict and prostitute, rumor had it how she’d been trying to clean her life up and go straight. Getting off the streets and finding a church home were her future plans. Tragically, those plans never fell through. Being an easy target, she met her deadly fate when she hopped into a car with her killer. The man responsible for exterminating the first hooker on Independence Avenue was also to blame for her murder. 
       Overstreet spurred into action a special briefing conference. The Gillham Park killer had supposedly been taken off the streets. The interrogation hung in the balances. Now the Brush Creek killer had to be taken out of commission. No longer could they tolerate the jerk who outsmarted them. Inside the roll call and briefing room on the third floor of headquarters, an assembly of notable law enforcement heavy hitters were in attendance. The chief of police, sheriffs, select police officers, FBI Agents, and the entire homicide division, they all gathered around a table with reports and stats and documentation for future reference. 
       A large digital screen and power zoom digital projector were set up for investigative purposes. Cups of warm coffee and pastries were lined along the oakwood table. Overstreet came armed with enough evidence to put them on the trail of the Brush Creek killer. Special guest Dr. Lynus Madrey decided to make more than just a cameo appearance after being summoned by the special victims and homicide units. Dr. Madrey had the expertise to pick apart the minds of the sickest criminals walking on American soil. 
       “We’re going to go ahead and get started,” Overstreet announced to his esteemed colleagues. “Words are never enough to tell all of you how honored I am to have you come together. With masterful and skilled police and detective work, the Gillham Park suspect has been apprehended. Go ahead and give yourselves a hand.” 
       The conference room broke out into congratulatory applauses. 
       “A couple’a days ago, I was over at Truman Medical Center inside the morgue with Doc McKinnis,” Overstreet annunciated, nursing his usual cup of warm coffee. “Our last two victims, both found floating around the Brush Creek waters inside large trashbags, were killed and mutilated in the same fashion as the first two victims.” 
       All parties watched as Overstreet sat a sheet of paper on top of the projector.  
       The clarity of the document had no one straining their eyes. So much for digital technology. 
       “We’ve been working fourteen to sixteen hour days with these cases,” Overstreet continued. “Seven days a week have gotten me grouchier than an old man living out his last days in a nursing home. Pulling those last two victims from the creek waters drew the line for me. Finding answers have been tough.” 
       “Jerry, our perp is different from any other type of serial killer,” Carey spoke in a nostalgic voice. “We know for certain that the same person is responsible for all four murders.” 
       “You’re right, Carey. Doc McKinnis is the best medical examiner in all of Jackson County. He knows that our suspect is definitely a shellshocked, insane, yet psychotic Vietnam Veteran. We can’t let him strike again.” 
       “The increasing time for the murders have been over a series of months.” 
       “Which is atypical for most serial killers.” 
       “This disturbed psycho is leading the race.” 
       Overstreet slid the first document off the projector. He replaced it with an even more important one. A chart displaying a series of murders involving women within a thirty year period came into clear focus.  
       “Guys, half of the eighty murders that occurred here in the city happened in six cluster time frames,” Overstreet articulated for his colleagues. “The first cluster was 1977. Ten murders occurred in the black community, the victims being between the ages of thirteen and twenty-seven. Seven had police records for prostitution and were well-known to the police. Six of the ten were found nude and had been strangled. We maintained that no one person killed all ten of these women. Only five of the ten cases were eventually solved, three others not considered.” 
       The statistics raised a few eyebrows. 
       “Wasn’t Swope Park the dumping ground for those bodies?” Carey asked his superior. 
       “There and other places,” Overstreet unveiled for prior investigative purposes. “The second cluster was 1982-83. The bodies of six women, many of them tied to drugs and prostitution, were all were found gagged and bound. All six of them were black. We discounted a serial killer theory, even though the cases were assigned to one squad. Three of those killings have gone unsolved.” 
       “Those were the years when prostitutes were frightened out of their wits,” commented Captain George Parks, also a veteran of the KCPD homicide division. 
       “And for good reason,” Overstreet fathomed. “The third cluster was from 1986-87. The bodies of eight women were found outdoors in city parks. Six of the eight were white women, the other two being black. These victims were prostitutes, drug users, and homeless women. Six of the eight were found nude and strangled, their bodies in sexually suggestive positions. All eight homicides remained unsolved.” 
       “The years 1986 and 1987 were two of the scariest to be living in the city,” Sergeant Raymond Lambert recalled during his service with the KCPD. 
       “They certainly were, Ray, to say the least,” Overstreet agreed. “The fourth cluster was in 1988.  The bodies of four white prostitutes were fished from the Missouri River during a four day period in June of 1988. One of the four victims had been stabbed in the chest thirty-three times. Two out of the four had been stabbed and partially dismembered. All four were tied to prostitution along Independence Avenue. None of the four cases have been solved.” 
       The group of law enforcement elite were mesmerized by the speech Overstreet conducted with such professionalism and expertise.  
       The chart outlined the series of murders with great insight. 
       “The next cluster was in 1989,” Overstreet moved on, coating his throat with a final sip of his coffee. “Three women who were convicted prostitutes and known drug users, were found dead in remote areas throughout the city, one having been stabbed multiple times and set on fire. All three were white and worked long stretches of Independence Avenue and Paseo and Gladstone Avenue. All three cases went unsolved.” 
       “In the game of solving homicides, you win some, you lose some,” Carey assumed, studying the chart under scrupulous directives. 
       “In the game of life, there’ll always be winners and losers. Solving homicides is no different. Cases turn cold and we end up not solving a lot of them. Our sixth and final cluster brings us into the present. It’s the year 2009 and four bodies of white women have been found dumped in trashbags in Brush Creek within a six month period. Thirteen bodies of black women have been found nude and strangled in Gillham Park within nine months. After intense interrogation tactics, I believe our Gillham Park killer will confess to the murders. As for the Brush Creek killings, that’s where we turn to our criminal analyst, Dr. Lynus Madrey. Dr. Madrey, this psychotic monster has puzzled us into a thousand migraines. What can you possibly tell us about him?” 
       “Most serial killers just don’t stop killing,” Dr. Madrey began, raising from his seat. “Killing innocent people can be a mental health problem moreso than the killer’s morals failing him or severe disorders in his character. Anyone who goes around strangling women to death, and then mutilating their body parts, is considered to be barbarically anti-female.” 
       “Could our Brush Creek killer be anti-female?” Overstreet asked, Dr. Madrey having popped one of those questionable bubbles inside his head. 
       “Yes he could. His negativity towards women is strong enough to make him a recluse.” 
       “Making him have little or no contact with friends or family.” 
       “Exactly, detective. Strangling and dismembering women also categorizes him as having developed pathological killing appetites. Neurobiological imbalances could be the basis for his problems. The Brush Creek killer could also suffer from impaired sensory-emotional integration. Less activity in certain parts of his brain could regulate and control his emotions and behavior.” 
       “Doc Madrey, this maniac doesn’t know how to put on the brakes when it comes to stop killing.” 
       “Runaway aggressive behavior is what it’s called. With violent criminals like the Brush Creek killer, the gray matter of his brain holds only about ten percent fewer neurons in the prefrontal cortex than the brains of most of the general population.” 
       “The bodies he’s left behind in the trashbags inside the creek waters, they’ve turned into sheer homicidal messes and confusing crime scenes. A couple’a months ago, we posted up two of our best police officers, and look what he did. He assaulted those officers and killed one of our best canines. After he got his hands bloody, he crawled through one of the longest tunnels in Brush Creek, then made the dirtiest getaway I’ve ever seen. We’re dealing with one of the sickest individuals ever born into humankind.” 
       Carey vaulted into the discussion with his signature opinions. “Trying to apprehend the Brush Creek killer 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. She hadn’t eaten anything since morning. Her stomach shot off strong growls of hunger. Overstreet ordered a light cocktail and an appetizer. Sandy decided to share the appetizers once they arrived at their table. 
       “I’d like to know, who’s the Brush Creek killer?” Overstreet inquired, lashes of adrenalin pumping him up. 
       “His name is Charles Rastelli,” Sandy revealed to Overstreet. 
       “How do you know that for sure?” 
       The drink and appetizers arrived at their table by the cordial waiter.  
       Sandy took a strong swallow of water. “He told me his name. Lieutenant Overstreet, he tried to rape me and kill me one night down in Brush Creek. This psychotic animal killed my Labrador Retriever named Bolo with his bare hands.” 
       “And you believe he’s the same man responsible for killing and dismembering the four women found floating in trashbags down in Brush Creek?” 
       “The word ‘believe’ isn’t factored into this story. I know for a straight fact that he’s responsible for their murders and mutilations. Lots of places I’ve gone, he’s done showed up out of nowhere. He’s following me detective and he wants to kill me.” 
       “Why you?” 
       “He didn’t kill me that night down in Brush Creek. He wants to put me on his list of victims.” 
       “So, he’s stalking you?” 
       “My God, he’s watching every move I make! He’s a shellshocked Vietnam War veteran who gets off on killing totally innocent women.” 
       Sandy put something heavy on Overstreet’s mind. “What else can you tell me?” 
       “He’s doesn’t have any genitals.” 
       “No private parts?” 
       “None, zilch, notta.” 
       “How do you know this?” 
       “The night he tried to attack me, I grabbed him in the middle of his crotch.” 
       “And?” 
       “Nothing but flat space was down there. Know how I know?” 
       “How?” 
       “He wore a giant colostomy bag. He had no organs down there to urinate out of.” 
       “Sounds freakish of nature to me. What else can you tell me about this possible suspect?” 
       “His face, that ugly, that grossly-pitted face of his. Stephen King would have a grand time writing a novel about that creepy mug of his.” 
       “Would ‘nightmare-of-a-face’ be a fair assessement of how he looked?” 
       “Straight to the point is more like it, Lieutenant. He’d frighten the devil straight out of hell.” 
       “The night he tried to attack you, was it the first time you’d ever seen him?” 
       “Yes it was.” 
       “Him popping up everywhere, give me more details about that.” 
       “Well,” Sandy ruffled, trying to shift into relax mode. “The prayer vigil we had for the slain black women found in Gillham Park, he showed up after everyone began leaving. I spotted him and started one of my high-speed foot chases. Like that, he vanished like a ghost. Thanksgiving night, my partner and I were down in The Plaza for The Plaza Lighting Ceremony. In the thick of the crowd, I spotted him just a few yards away. He and some woman were holding carry-out boxes from The Cheesecake Factory. This same woman, I believe she was the one who was just found in Brush Creek. The vigil/protest that S.A.V.E. recently had around Brush Creek, he walked past when I was talking with a news reporter. I went in pursuit of him, and like the other times, he came and went like a breeze of air. Lieutenant, he’s hot on my trail.” 
       “The woman you saw him with on Thanksgiving night, would you recognize her if you seen a picture of her?” 
       “Sure would.” 
       Overstreet nursed his cocktail with a thin red straw. “I’d like to know something, Sandy. If you had this information all along, why are you just now coming forward?” 
       “You have every right to ask me a rough edge question like that.” 
       “Lives are at stake here.” 
       “At a meeting S.A.V.E. had one night, I explained to all the members that I felt irresponsible for not coming forward like I should have.” 
       “You should’ve come forward the night he tried to attack you and killed your dog.” 
       “No doubt, Lieutenant.” 
       “How recently have you seen him?” 
       “Remember when you were tucking me inside the passenger’s side of your car?” 
       “I do.” 
       “Remember you asked me why I had acted so strangely?” 
       “Yes, I remember.” 
       “Don’t think I’m crazy, but I believe I spotted him walking on the side of the police headquarters.” 
       “Are you sure, Sandy?” 
       “I hope I am.” 
       “Why didn’t you say something?” 
       “This bastard’s slicker than snot on a doorknob. In a split-second, he can become invisible.” 
       “Sounds like he’s done developed a pattern of some sort. He knows when you come, when you go, and keeps a schedule conducive to your’s.” 
       “His place of residence, I know where it is.” 
       “You do? How’d you find that out?” 
       “The world keeps on getting smaller. Kansas City isn’t exactly the biggest city in the United States. One night, my partner and I were inside Missy D’s nightclub for the celebrity impersonation show. There, we met a guy and his partner who talked about someone they knew named Charlie who kept crazy hours and who took big trashbags out to the complex dumpster in the early morning hours. The nightmare-of-a-face, he confirmed how this Charlie character had one ruined complexion. Lieutenant, the man you’re after lives at The Rosenburg Apartments on The Plaza.” 
       Sandy spoke to Overstreet about her partner. He didn’t have to be a genius to figure out she was a lesbian. The signs were well in place. Her sexual orientation was of no concern to him. Apprehending the sonofabitch who had no regard to women’s lives stood tall on his priority list. 
       “The Rosenburg Apartments? Where exactly on The Plaza is this apartment complex?” 
       “Not quite sure.” 
       “How’d you find out where he lives there?” 
       “The gentleman that my partner and I met at Missy D’s the night of the celebrity impersonation show told us.” 
       “This gentleman’s name?” 
       “Derrick Thomas. To find answers to questions pounding inside my head, I showed up at his job at the IRS building down there on Pershing Road.” 
       “That complex takes up at least two city blocks. The first victim found in Brush Creek worked there.” 
       “Derrick told me her name was Lisa Wallace.” 
       “That’s correct.” 
       “She could’ve been murdered at his apartment inside The Rosenburg.” 
       “Yes, she could’ve.” 
       Sandy and Overstreet had gotten very acquainted. 
       “Amy Alex, the pretty young girl from Chicago, I believe she was with Charlie the night of The Plaza Lighting Ceremony.” 
       “You sure about that?” 
       “I don’t forget faces, Lieutenant. The second her face popped up on the television screen, I recognized her right away. From right out of my recliner, I jumped up and shouted and pointed at the television screen. So, where do we go from here?” 
       “As far as?” 
       “When can you pick this shitbag up and get him off the streets? Like you said leaving the police headquarters, anyone in the city could become his next victim.” 
       “Would you be willing to go with myself as well as several police officers to his apartment?” 
       “More than willing, Lieutenant. The sooner he gets off the streets, the sooner women can sleep peacefully at night. How soon can we go to his apartment? I’d be willing to go right now to The Rosenburg Apartments.” 
       “Before making any moves, I’d like to get a judge to sign a warrant with legal authorization to enter and search his apartment.” 
       “How long can that take?” 
       “By as early as tomorrow morning or afternoon, depending on if I can convince a judge that we have just cause to make an emergency entry and search.” 
       “But other women’s lives are at stake. This Neanderthal could be working on his next victim as we speak.” 
       “Look, I want to get this scumbag as bad as you do. There are certain regulations we have to abide by before making any moves. We can only cross our fingers and wish that he’s not working on his next victim.” 
       “To my understanding, the Gillham Park killer was caught.” 
       “He was.” 
       “You have a name?” 
        “For reasons of confidentiality, I cannot mention any names.” 
       “When will the media put his name out there?” 
       “Soon, Sandy, very soon. I’m scheduled to interrogate this clown in the future. Keep it to yourself.” 
       “My lips are sealed tight. Hey, what about the warrant to go after Charlie at The Rosenburg?” 
       “I’ll have time to visit with one of the judges in his chambers or somewhere else in privacy.” 
       “You sure keep a busy schedule.” 
       “Apprehending the Gillham Park killer cut down considerably on my work hours.” 
       “Were you working both the Gillham Park and Brush Creek murder cases?” 
       “Yes, kinda back and forth.” 
       “Do you have time for sleep?” 
       “Three or four hours does me some justice.” 
       “Married with children?” 
       “Thirty-six years married. Three grown children. Grandfather of five.” 
       “You spend quality time with them?” 
       “Yes and no. My wife complains, but she knows the type of work I’ve devoted myself to. My kids have their own lives and we usually come together for the holidays.” 
       “If this warrant comes through, will you get into contact with me?” 
       “I will, no question about it. Also, I’d like to pay this Derrick Thomas fella a visit. He might be resourceful in helping us move in on Charlie.” 
       “His hours at the IRS are usually from eight a.m. to five p.m.” 
       “Leave your schedule open for the rest of the week.” 
       “Can I give you my card?” 
       “Please do.” 
       Sandy scrambled around inside her pockets for her business card. She handed Overstreet the card with pride. She just happened to look out the wide tinted windows of the Japanese restaurant and got hit with yet another surprise. Standing on the side of the historical Midland Theatre building, was the exact maniac she’d spotted almost an hour ago on the side of the police headquarters.  
       This time, he wore a gray maxi wool coat with a New York Yankees baseball cap. Not again! Could she have been on the verge of losing her mind? How could this be happening again within an hour’s time? Was the psycho brave enough to be seen in plain view, knowing Sandy was in the company of a seasoned homicide detective? Thoughts spinned a hundred miles an hour through her mind. 
       “Lieutenant, I believe he’s standing over there by The Midland,” Sandy pointed, a reflection of her finger casted upon the mirror window.  
       “Who Sandy?” Overstreet asked, bobbing his head in every direction. 
       “Charlie, Lieutenant, Charlie!” she shouted, pointing more specifically out at the subject. 
       “The guy in the maxi wool coat with the Yankees cap on?” 
       “Yes, Lieutenant, yes!” 
       “Are you sure that’s him?” 
       “That face is far too unforgettable.” 
       “He’s quite mobile.” 
       Overstreet and Sandy jumped out of their seats. They snatched their coats off the back of the chairs and ran out of the restaurant. Both pursued the subject at high speed. The stranger ran a half-block west and took off into a dark alley. Overstreet snatched his service revolver out of the holster and hoped for a target to aim for. A homeless man with a long white beard and crusty clothing sat on the ground next to a dumpster. Their person of interest vanished into thin air, just like Sandy explained to Overstreet.  
       “Did you see anyone run through this alley?” Overstreet asked the homeless man, having frightened him with his weapon drawn. 
       “No sir,” he replied, sliding a half-full whiskey bottle back into his coat pocket. 
       “Don’t lie to me.” 
       “Sir, I’m not lying.” 
       “Thick wool coat, Yankees ball cap, about five-ten or five-eleven. Did you see someone who might fit that description?” 
       “Sir, for the last time, I didn’t see no one run through here.” 
       Overstreet flipped open the lid to the dumpster. Nothing but smelly trash was stacked to the top. Large rats crawled around inside the dumpster in search of their next meal. Overstreet dropped the lid and looked further up the alley. He and Sandy stepped across the street into an adjoining alley. This alleyway happened to be free of dumpsters and scattered trash. The stench from human body waste had Overstreet and Sandy stacking both hands over their noses. 
       “Where in the fricking fracking hell did he go?” Overstreet wondered, the stench penetrating his nose. 
       “I don’t know, Lieutenant, but he’s one shrewd, clever sonofabitch,” Sandy attested, trying hard not to inhale the fumes of raw urine. 
       “This odor is about to make me sick.” 
       “They don’t call it ‘piss alley’ for nothing. These downtown alleys are like open restrooms for all the homeless people down here.” 
       “He’s got to be around here somewhere.” 
       “He’s playing games.” 
       “My time’s too valuable for any goddamned games. It makes no sense at all how he makes a quick clean getaway.” 
       “Do you believe me now, Lieutenant?” 
       “Oh, for sure, Sandy. Wish we could show up at this shitbag’s apartment tonight.” 
       “Our time will come, Lieutenant. Believe me, it’ll come real soon.” 
       “It irks the living hell out of me that he got away.” 
       “Can’t dwell on it now. He’s done the same thing to me on several occasions.” 
       “Hey, we forgot to pay the people back at the Japanese steakhouse.” 
       “We sure did.” 
       “Let’s do our civic duty and pay them what we owe.” 
       “Sounds like the right thing to do.” 
       Walking out of the alley, Overstreet mumbled obscenities of how the assailant got away. Sandy mumbled some obscenities of her own. How did the slickster get away? Back in the first alley, the lid to the dumpster checked by Overstreet and Sandy rose to a low level. Charlie had emerged from the deep pile of trash. He brushed off sticky trash and food particles. A large rat crawled over his shoulder and jumped to the ground. Overstreet and Sandy never knew how Charlie had been trained in Vietnam to hide in the most unsuspecting places. Camouflaging himself by any means was a part of his ability to travel through jungles and not be detected by the enemy. The sobering homeless man couldn’t believe his eyes. Charlie had jumped inside the dumpster and covered himself with the trash so fast, until he never even knew he’d come into the alley. Combat training sure had its benefits. 
       “Say buddy, some guy and lady came through here looking for you,” the homeless man tipped off Charlie, still intoxicated to the point of not utilizing his full faculties. 
       With a mischevious smile, Charlie said to him, “Yeah, I knew they’d come looking for me.” 
       “I told them that I hadn’t seen you.” 
       “Appreciate that, buddy.” 
       “You’re welcome.” 
       Charlie brushed himself off and walked cautionary down the alley. He knew his days were numbered as far as Overstreet and Sandy and others scoring a victory against him. 
  CHAPTER—47 
       The volume to the twenty-inch television inside the now cluttered apartment of Charlie played at levels high enough to disturb his neighbors. Tenants of The Rosenburg made several complaints about how Charlie blatantly ignored their respect to privacy. Some threatened to burst down his door and just beat the holy hell out of him. News Channel Seven decided to air a special segment on their program. Their efforts were concentrated on helping the police catch the Brush Creek killer. 
       The Gillham Park killer had been apprehended and was yet to be dealt with by Overstreet and his dedicated team of detectives. The black community were relieved to know how a brutal murderer was finally brought to justice. Charlie moved closer to the television since his vision was giving him problems. Stephanie Harrison, a veteran reporter who’d been dubbed the sex symbol of journalism, turned to flash her face and microphone before thousands of television sets throughout the city. 
       “In the first five minutes of News Channel Seven,” Stephanie talked clearly before the cameras. “Many are gathered here in Brush Creek to mourn the deaths of four women, all of them found within eight months. Tonight, a prayer vigil takes place with gutwrenching statements from the relatives of the victims.” 
       Charlie stared meticulously at the television set. The shakiness and sweating and racing heart paid him a visit. To watch the crowds of people posting flyers of the crime tips hotline numbers, and digitalized photos of the victims onto trees and light posts, sent him into the most turbulent stir of his life. The diligence to help catch the killer was a deep wound to his pride.      
       “Family and friends gather here at Brush Creek Boulevard and Swope Parkway to pay tribute to the four victims who were brutally murdered,” Stephanie continued, frost blowing across her face. “Many in the grief-stricken community are still numb from the heartbreaking news.” 
       Stephanie turned her attention to the father of Amy Alex, Arthur Alex, who’d come in from Chicago after receiving the news that his daughter had been murdered and mutilated. “Arthur, thank you for joining everyone here at Brush Creek. What are your thoughts on the death of your daughter and the other three women?” 
       “I can only speak for my daughter,” Arthur discreetly sobbed. “She could walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with a bunch of friends. Her excitement and passion for life was unmatched.” 
       “What type of outcome are you hoping for?” 
       “That this heartless animal is caught and served the type of justice he deserves.” 
       Charlie’s rage had detonated to an uncompromisable level.  
       Like a weapon being thrown at a bitter enemy, he slung the remote at the television, breaking it into several pieces. 
       “Heartless animal, huh?” Charlie rattled, squeezing both fists. “You motherfuckers haven’t seen a heartless animal, yet. In Vietnam, I ate and slept with, I fought and ran with, and I even killed all the heartless animals over there. War has no beginning, and it has no ending! I am the one who began this thing, and I will be the one who ends it.” 
       Charlie converged back to silence. He wanted to hear what the rest of the newscast had to say. 
       “Have you provided police with information that might be helpful?” 
       “Only a brief description of my daughter’s character, her friends, and her stay here in Kansas City.” 
       “You have every right to be overwhelmed with emotion. Could you please tell News Channel Seven your feelings about the nature in which your daughter’s body was found?” 
       Quite a hard question to answer, Arthur conjured up enough bravery to assemble his words.      He smashed tears across his frosted cheeks. “No child or nobody should be found in the manner in which my daughter was found. To have found my daughter, as well as the other three young women found here in Brush Creek, is a parent’s worse nightmare. To dismember the body of an innocent human being is baseless beyond words.” 
       “There is a great outpour of support from many people. Your thoughts on this.” 
       “These are very difficult times for myself and my family and the other victim’s families. The prayer vigil and the posting of flyers is proof that there is love amongst many in the community. I ask for this love and support to continue.” 
       Back inside his apartment, Charlie coughed out bitterness. He watched the volunteers wear T-shirts with photos of the four victims. How dare they go door-to-door to help local law enforcement try and catch the Brush Creek killer. Those were his perversed sentiments. 
       “Arthur, thank you for input,” Stephanie obliged. 
       “You’re welcome.” 
       Arthur walked away to join the others in the support rally. A massive group of women from S.A.V.E. rallied in full effect. For Charlie, the protest was more like a curse. To him, the pillars of the community were the enemies of society. They had no right to try and find the Brush Creek killer.  
       Stephanie and her news crew found the perfect subject to interview. While waiting for Overstreet to be granted the search warrant to go into Charlie’s apartment, Sandy hustled up a bunch of her soldiers from the S.A.V.E. organization. Carol stood by her side as a buffer.  
       “Excuse me miss, but in what capacity are you here to serve in?” Stephanie asked of Sandy. 
       “I am here on behalf of S.A.V.E,” Sandy proudly responded. 
       “What organization is S.A.V.E.?” 
       “Sisters Against Violent Encounters.” 
       “What impact does your organization have in helping to solve the Brush Creek murders?” 
       “The same impact we’ve had in helping solve the Gillham Park strangle victims,” Sandy quoted with exhilaration. “The fight won’t be over until the person responsible for the four women found here in Brush Creek is found and arrested.” 
       “Is there a person of interest?” 
       “There is definitely a person of interest, but it’s sad that we don’t have pictures on flyers to pass out to help us find this person of interest.” 
       Sandy knew exactly who the person of interest was. His disgruntled face remained etched in her memory.  
       She couldn’t sleep peacefully at night thinking about the bastard. She couldn’t eat a decent meal without her appetite being spoiled.  
       She couldn’t make passionate love to her lesbian counterpart without the sex going sour. The sooner he got caught, the sooner she could resume a normal life. 
       “Where does your organization go from here?” 
       “We don’t want the public to think that this vigil here in Brush Creek mean that it’s over. The women of S.A.V.E. also had a vigil around Brush Creek prior to this one. We’re doing everything in our power since we know this killer is still on the loose.” 
       “Any other efforts in addition to this one?” 
       “We stop now, our work’s only half-done. Additional reward money is being offered and a billboard advertisement is due to go up soon.” 
       By now, Charlie’s fury skyrocketed to threatening levels. The face of Sandy Barnholtz agitated him to the point of wanting to commit more murders.  
       “The bitch just can’t keep her fucking mouth shut!” Charlie sizzled, big sweat rings under both armpits. “She got away! She got away! She got away! I just can’t believe she got the fuck away from me!” 
       Still, Charlie couldn’t believe Sandy made a clean getaway. The getaway, of course, was a hard messy one. She was supposed to have been killed along with the other four vulnerable women. Nobody escaped the wrath of Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli. 
       “So, she thinks she’ll live long enough to keep up her charade,” Charlie exonerated, sweat drenched over his face. “War has no beginning, and it has no ending. Why can’t nobody understand what that means? I just don’t know why. I will kill her like I killed all the rest of those Vietcong chinks over Nam. I should’ve killed those two chink hookers who laughed at me in that whore house.” 
       Charlie snapped out of another one of his deep hallucinations.  
       He followed more of the live news story reported by Stephanie Harrison.  
       “Appreciate all of your information,” Stephanie thanked Sandy. “There has been no one taken into custody who could be responsible for the four Brush Creek killings, and no one has been questioned so far. Police are still looking for tips, and if you can provide them with tips, please call our tips hotline at 474-TIPS. This is Stephanie Harrison reporting live from Brush Creek.” 
       The cameras were shut off. News Channel Seven wrapped up their equipment to load onto their vans. Being cautionary, Sandy moved her body around in full revolutions. The man she feared so intensely produced much fear on her. At the moment, he was nowhere to be found in the vicinity of Brush Creek.  
       Charlie felt threatened moreso than ever. The woman he could’ve killed. The woman who should’ve been dead, she out maneuvered a sicko like him and remained alive. 
       “You say your work’s only half-done!” Charlie snubbed to himself. “Well, Charles Rastelli never half does anything. You were damn lucky that night down in Brush Creek. I was the stupid one, darling, not you. I should’ve brought you here back to this apartment and then chopped you up like I did the others. But no, I just had to try and finish you off right down in the creek.” 
       Charlie had one of the sickest minds in the state of Missouri. The question remained the same. Did Vietnam create the monster he’d become? Did his childhood create the psychopath he’d been destined to become? 
       These questions remained unanswered. Nothing could quench his thirst greater than killing Sandy Barnholtz. Her still being alive was a mockery to his skills as a killer. His livelihood was at stake. He grabbed his wool coat and stormed out the door. He cared not to lock the door to protect his possessions. On the way down the stairs and out the door, Charlie ran into the very man he despised as a neighbor. 
       “Charlie, I’d like to talk to you for a second,” Derrick requested, blocking half of the front doorway. 
       “Not now, Derrick, I’m in a rush!” Charlie yelled through clenched teeth. 
       “It’s important, Charlie, I’m telling you.” 
       “I don’t fucking have time! Okay?” 
       “You need to know this.” 
       “Tell me some other time.” 
       “But------.” 
       “Goddammit, leave me alone!” 
       Charlie jerked the door open and slammed it. It was apparent to Derrick that he didn’t want to be bothered. Derrick stepped back to think for a moment. Why tip him off about the surprise coming his way? Overstreet and Sandy wouldn’t’ve been pleased to know how Derrick freed the fish from the hook. Logically, Charlie knew his days were numbered. Nobody stayed at the top forever. Not even serial killers like himself. 
  CHAPTER—48 
       Overstreet jumped at the chance to bring Sandy along with him on a visit to the IRS. The person they needed in their camp was Derrick Thomas. Neither one of them were IRS employees. They were stopped at the guard’s desk inside the building’s tunnel. Overstreet produced his detective’s badge in order to give himself preferential treatment.  
       “Can I help you?” asked one of the veteran guards. 
       “Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD,” Overstreet declared to the guard. “I’d like to speak with an employee here at the IRS.” 
       “Can I get you to sign in here, Lieutenant?” 
       “Sure.” 
       Overstreet signed his name, the date, the time, and the badge number assigned to him. The guard issued him a temporary badge.  
       He clipped the badge onto his suitjacket.  
       Overstreet gestured over to Sandy. “Give me a few minutes to find Derrick.” 
       “I’ll wait down here. Derrick won’t be hard to find.” 
       “See ya in a few minutes.” 
       The journey began to the upper floors. The glossy posters of Kansas City history enclosed inside the glass frames had once again captivated Overstreet. Both walls on opposite sides of the long escalators added excitement to the trip. Once on the lower level, employees traveled to and from their respective departments. The Christmas holiday was fast approaching. Santa Claus stocking caps hung over the heads of those in the spirit. Overstreet punched the elevator button for the second floor.  
       Stepping off on two, he’d been greeted by those usual sad faces. I hate my job and can’t wait until I retire or find a better one. I’m spending my working years either hating what I do or bored with it. Those were the exact messages displayed across their worn faces. Groups of women passed Overstreet asking one another for the daily lottery numbers. Winning the lottery was their only hope of escaping the woes of the nine-to-five grindstone and living the good life. Someone had asked about the powerball numbers.  
       Talk about wanting to shoot straight to the top. The only advice Overstreet could’ve given was to get a life. They wanted to win the lottery along with millions of others. The scene he witnessed on his first trip to the IRS was almost the same rendition. People were lost and confused. Their negative attitudes were contagious.  
       Overstreet walked past the cafeteria and main corridor. Using the temporary badge he’d been assigned to, he placed it up to the sensor and walked through the double doors. Not quite as busy as the peak tax season, the data conversion branch only had a few employees pounding away on their computer terminals.       
       Overstreet overheard the voice of a gay male giggling away. Followed by those giggles was the husky voice of some woman. Overstreet strutted down the long aisle with the hard heels of his shoes smashing into the tiles.  
       “I’m looking for Derrick Thomas,” Overstreet chimed to a group of four who were gathered near one of the office doors. 
       Derrick, being the sometime boisterous and never-shy employee, never hesitated to come forward. “Who are you, sir?” 
       “Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD.” 
       “You’re speaking with Derrick. Is there something that I can help you with?” 
       “Actually, there is. Can we go somewhere and talk in private?” 
       “Yes we can.” 
       Derrick turned to Cindy Montgomery to approve the use of her office. Cindy and Overstreet exchanged inquisitive eye contact. She had a clear idea as to why he came back to the IRS. Kathy and Mitchell dispersed to different areas of the building. Overstreet and Derrick stepped into Cindy’s office. To feel more in command, Derrick grabbed the seat occupied by the manager. Overstreet casually took the seat on the other side of the desk. 
       “Do you know why I’m here?” Overstreet asked of Derrick. 
       “Sandy Barnholtz?” Derrick guessed on an intelligent notion. 
       “You’re correct. Did Sandy tell you that I might be paying you a visit?” 
       “Yes, she did.” 
       “Did she also tell you that your neighbor, Charles Rastelli, might be our main suspect in the Brush Creek killings?” 
       “She told me that also.” 
       “How well do you know Charles?” 
       “Quite well, Lieutenant.” 
       “How well is well? Give me some details on your repoire as neighbors.” 
       “We’ve been neighbors at The Rosenburg Apartments for quite a few years. Charlie is one weird man, detective.” 
       “Weird, how?” 
       “He makes a lot of noises up in his apartment during all kinds of crazy hours. My partner and I have seen him take large bags of trash out during early morning hours. To my knowledge, he’s never been married nor have we ever seen him with a woman.” 
       “Do you and your partner call him Charlie?” 
       “We do.” 
       “Does this same Charlie have a badly-pitted face?” 
       “Yes he does.” 
       “Is he a veteran of The Vietnam War?” 
       “Yes he is.” 
       “Do you know where he’s employed?” 
       “At a food processing plant down on Southwest Boulevard called Gomez Foods.” 
       “Yes, I’ve heard of Gomez Foods. Does Charlie convey any type of strange behavior?” 
       “Strange doesn’t even begin to describe, Charlie, Lieutenant,” Derrick deciphered. “He keeps some of the strangest hours, doing some of the strangest things.” 
       “Strange things like what?” 
       “Let’s see, Charlie yells out for no reason, whatsoever. He yells out these codes for when he was in the Vietnam War.” 
       “Could you interpret any of these codes?” 
       “Not’a one of them. You said that he could be your main suspect behind the Brush Creek killings. Do you think it’s possible that those same trashbags he carried out in the early morning hours had the bodies of the women found in trashbags in Brush Creek?” 
       “It’s a ninety to a hundred percent possible chance.” 
       “You mean that my partner and I have been living downstairs from a serial killer?” 
       Overstreet reached inside the inner pocket of his suitjacket and produced a folded stack of papers. “I have with me a judge’s order for a warrant to search his apartment. I’d like for you to come along with me and Sandy. He’s gotta be taken off the streets before somebody else turns up mutilated inside a trashbag in Brush Creek.” 
       “Another thing, Lieutenant,” Derrick recalled. “This man is absolutely, he’s positively, obsessed with Brush Creek. His walls are covered with posters of Brush Creek.” 
       “Which gives us another reason to believe that he’s the Brush Creek killer.” 
       “There’s a strong possibility the stench coming from those trashbags were the bodies of the women he killed.” 
       “Any betting man would put a huge wager on that.” 
       Derrick twisted his lips awkwardly. “Lieutenant, what if he’s home? This man knows all about war combat and how to kill people. He’s told us stories about being trained to use bombs and swords and his bare hands to kill lots of people.” 
       “My friend, we won’t be going to his apartment alone. There’ll be enough police manpower to take this guy out if necessary. The only way to prove his guilt or innocence, is to collect enough evidence to link him to the Brush Creek murders.” 
       “Do you think there’s evidence left inside his apartment?” 
       “We won’t know until we get there.” 
       “Can my partner come along, too?” 
       “Your partner?” 
       “My boyfriend named Mitchell. He also works here at the IRS.”  
       Overstreet knew right away that Derrick was a gay man. The voice, the walk, the mannerism, and just the overall demeanor, couldn’t be hidden by no means.  
       “Sure, he can come along.” 
       “This should be interesting.” 
       “I’d say so.” 
       The time to catch a maddog killer had come. 
  CHAPTER—49 
       Overstreet and Sandy arrived at The Rosenburg Apartments at precisely 2:37 p.m. on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. Derrick and Mitchell parked a few yards behind the unmarked detective’s car driven by Overstreet. The moment of truth had arrived. A row of ten marked police cars were lined up in perfect order across the street. Residents of The Country Club Plaza looked out their windows. Pedestrians walking on different sides of the street starved to be informed of what was going on. Motorists took their eyes off the road to see the spectacle waiting to happen. 
       Overstreet and Sandy emerged from the car. Derrick and Mitchell did likewise. A total of twenty-one police officers came out of the ten cars and met up. Charlie was considered a very dangerous man and had to be approached with caution. By some weird coincidence, the elderly owners of The Rosenburg Apartments, Joseph and Nora Rosenburg, decided to pay one of their many properties a visit. Had someone tipped them off about one of the sickest men in the city residing at their prized piece of property? 
       “What’s going on?” Joseph Rosenburg turned to ask Overstreet. 
       “You are?” Overstreet turned to ask the super wealthy real estate mogul. 
       “Joseph Rosenburg. My wife and I own this apartment building.” 
       “Well, Joseph, the Brush Creek killer might be a resident here.” 
       “You can’t be serious! Who are you?” 
       “Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet. I’m in charge of the KCPD homicide division.” 
       “How could we not know that?” 
       “The same way lots of other people didn’t know it.” 
       “What do you plan on doing?” 
       Overstreet fished out the warrant granted to him by a judge. “I have a signed judge’s warrant to search the apartment of Charles Rastelli.” 
       “Charlie?” 
       “You know him personally?” 
       “Yes, my wife and I have conversed with him on several occasions.” 
       “Charlie might be responsible for the murders of the four women found mutilated down in Brush Creek.” 
       “He’d tell my wife and I stories about his obsession with Brush Creek. Then, he’d turn around and tell us horror stories about the Vietnam War.” 
       Carol left work early after getting a phone call from Sandy. She parked almost two blocks away from where all the action would soon take place. Overstreet, along with a cadre of other detectives and police officers, slowly approached the front door of The Rosenburg Apartments with their weapons drawn. Joseph Rosenburg unlocked the door and stepped aside for the assigned law enforcement to enter. Derrick didn’t utter a word to Overstreet.  
       He pointed to the top of the stairs and straight at the door to Charlie’s apartment. Each step was taken with masterful precaution. No sounds were coming from the apartment.  
       Overstreet tapped lightly with his knuckles. “Charles Rastelli?”  
       He listened closely for any detectable noises. 
       No one inside the apartment responded. Carey and other detectives waited by the apartment across the hall. KCPD officers were lined along the stairs with their pistols pointed for action. 
       “Charles, are in you there?” Overstreet twittered, knocking for a second time. 
       A move had to be made. Overstreet allowed Joseph Rosenburg to open the door with prudence. Not a second after the key turned the lock and the door opened, Overstreet and the others scattered throughout the one bedroom apartment.  
       “Police!” Overstreet cried out, using his best detective’s voice. “Charles, if you’re in here, then come out with your hands up!” 
       “KCPD!” Carey yelled even louder, coming in right behind Overstreet.  
       “Check all the closets,” Overstreet ordered one-half of the many officers. 
       “Look under the bed and behind any open spaces,” Carey ordered the other half. 
       A thorough search began around Charlie’s apartment. All parties slipped on surgical gloves to keep from contaminating any crucial DNA evidence. Cabinet doors in the kitchen went flying open. Closets in the bedroom had been rummaged through with stringent skill. From behind the front room sofa, to the side of the bathtub, no area went unchecked.  
       All eyes were directed at the walls in the front room. Everything Brush Creek appeared to be posters hanging on the wall inside personalized frames. Overstreet focused his attention on a large thirty-by-forty poster of an aerial view of the floodwaters of 1977 which destroyed lots of property and claimed many of lives. 
       A smaller twenty-by-thirty poster next to it had a caption at the top in large bold letters which read:  SEARCHERS FIND 20TH BODY IN BRUSH CREEK AS AREA PICKS ITSELF UP. Posters hung neatly in the front room, the bedroom, the bathroom and even in the kitchen. Overstreet and the others knew this psychopath kept Brush Creek on the brains.  
       “These posters tell a lot of the story,” Overstreet commenced. 
       “Tells a story of obsession, like a sick fascination,” Carey incited. 
       “The large one in the middle of the wall,” Overstreet pointed. “That poster must be his most prized one of them all.” 
       “But why would a poster showing flood waters destroying property and dead bodies fascinate this guy?” 
       “Question should be, why does Brush Creek fascinate him in general?” 
       Sandy stepped in and added her own input. “Detectives, the night that he tried to attack and kill me down in Brush Creek, he explained to me how Brush Creek was like an engineering marvel to him. He said with great passion how The Statue of Liberty, the Hollywood Sign, the Taj Mahal, and the Gateway Arch were nothing compared to Brush Creek. His obsession of the creek is out of this world.” 
       “Where did this obsession start?” 
       “Only God knows.” 
       “The women he murdered and mutilated, he could’ve dumped their bodies anywhere around the city. Why did he choose Brush Creek to do so?” 
       “The answer would have’ta come from him?” 
       “You think he knew we were coming?” 
       “I’m sure he had some clues we’d be moving in on him.” 
       Dr. McKinnis showed up wearing protective gear. He had his DNA kit in hand and was ready to go back to work. Dr. Barney Purvis of the KCPD crime lab also came prepared to take on a new challenge. Workers under them came with diligent attitudes and fresh minds.  
       “Glad you could come on short notice, Doc” Overstreet praised, a man he’d given his livelihood to.  
       “We started this investigation together, and we’re going to see it through together,” Dr. McKinnis said with strong conviction. 
       “Like all the others?” 
       “Yes, like the good, the bad, and the ugly ones.” 
       “We haven’t really found anything, Doc, that’s of any use to us.” 
       “The fun hasn’t even began yet.” 
       Overstreet stepped across the room to pat Dr. Purvis on the shoulder. “Doc Purvis, can’t thank you enough after the department dispatched you to this maniac’s apartment.” 
       “I live for this work, Lieutenant.” 
       “We’re hoping we leave here with enough evidence to put this sicko away for the rest of his unnatural born life.” 
       “Anything as of yet?” 
       “Like I told Doc McKinnis, we haven’t come upon anything yet.” 
       “Well, let’s get started.” 
       The closet in the front room was cluttered with piles and piles of junk.  
       One of the novice detectives scrambled until he came upon something he found substantial. “Hey, Lieutenant, take a look at this.” 
       “A look at what?” 
       A long and heavy Full Tang Monster Machete was brought to the front of the closet. “This baby right here.” 
       “Sweet Mother Jesus!” Overstreet ruffled, both eyes bucked in amazement.  
       “Where’d he get a sword like this from?” 
       “Be careful with that,” the officer had been cautioned. 
       “Feels like it weighs as much as I do.” 
       Overstreet tapped his heels into the hardwood floor to get Dr. McKinnis’ attention. “Doc McKinnis, take a look at this.” 
       Dr. McKinnis came towards Overstreet overshadowed with intrigue. “Could it be, detective?” 
       “Doc, the machete you described to me several times in the morgue. This has got to be the same machete you were talking about.” 
       “The Full Tang Monster Machete,” Dr. McKinnis described upon observation. “It looks like the same make and model used to chop down tall vegetation during the Vietnam War.” 
       “There’s no doubt in my mind that this is the same machete he used to dismember the women’s body with. Didn’t you tell me, Doc, that he knew where to cut and how to cut?” 
       “That I did, detective. During his tour of duty in Vietnam, he might’ve used machetes to dismember the bodies of his enemies.” 
       “This thing is large enough and sharp enough to chop up a bull elephant. Look at how sharp the blade is. Look at how firm the handle is.” 
       Dr. McKinnis gave the blade a quizzical look. “Detective, can you hold the blade about mid-way in the air?” 
       “Sure can.” 
       “Steady, now.” 
       He took a powerful magnifying glass and examined the blade from the tip to the butt near the handle. “There’re tiny splatters of blood still on the blade.” 
       “We’ve got to get this baby to the lab as soon as possible.” 
       “A DNA blood-pattern can be performed. The lab’s DNA computerized database should be able to tell us who the blood belongs to.” 
       “Can it possibly belong to both the perp and the vic?” 
       “Very possible, detective.” 
       The “Dream Team” commissioned by the KCPD were still hard at work. Digital cameras used by other detectives snapped several photos of Charlie’s apartment. Quite a creepy place, they went into every room to photograph evidence.  
       Dr. McKinnis made more discoveries. “Detective, come over here and see this.” 
       “What’cha got there, Doc?” 
       He pointed to blood droplets near the closet where the machete had been discovered. “Our perp made an attempt to clean up any evidence.” 
       Two opinions might’ve been better than one. Dr. Purvis came over to the closet door with his magnifying glass and DNA collection kit. He handed Dr. McKinnis an equally powerful magnifying glass and they both made close observations. 
       “What, he tried to scrub the floor to make it free from the mess he left behind?” Overstreet inquired. 
       “Yes, he did exactly that,” Dr. McKinnis reasoned. “There is powdery residue here on the floor, which tells me he tried to scrub away every bit of evidence.” 
       “The residue being what type of home cleaner?” 
       “Ajax, Comet, maybe some other type of household cleaning agent.” 
       “Blood dries and it’s hard to clean up. Am I correct, Doc McKinnis and Doc Purvis?” 
       “Correct you are,” Dr. McKinnis confirmed. 
       “You’re right on the money,” Dr. Purvis nodded. 
       Charlie wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. The dummy cleaned up behind himself after killing and amputating his victim’s body parts, but didn’t get the job done in its entirety. There were minds far more clever than his. Detectives and police officers turned over mattresses and emptied every dresser drawer in the bedroom. The bedroom closet was cleared out of all items. A novice detective under the stewardship of Overstreet and Carey stumbled upon two full boxes of disposable urine collection bags. A pharmaceutical supply company from way up in New Jersey shipped them into Kansas City for Charlie to have access to. 
       “Lieutenant Overstreet, Detective Schroeder,” the detective dispatched, holding two unwrapped bags in opposite hands. “Can you guys come in here for a second?” 
       “What is it?” Overstreet asked, coming through the bedroom door with a pen and notepad. 
       “Look what I found in the closet.” 
       “Urine disposal bags?” 
       “A bunch of them came from those two boxes.” 
       “Why so many of them?” 
       “That’s the question of the day.” 
       Overstreet popped his fingers. “Doc McKinnis, can I see you in here, please?” 
       Dr. McKinnis entered the bedroom still holding his magnifying glass and components to the DNA kit. “Find something in here, detective?” 
       “Whaddaya gather of this?” Overstreet asked, holding up one of the urine bags. 
       “Yes, URO-3000 collection bags.” 
       “Look familiar?” 
       “Familiar is putting it rather lightly. Nursing home patients that I’ve performed autopsies on have worn those same type of urine collection bags. The reinforced eyelets for easy hanging and maximum protection against tearing looks very familiar.” 
       “Anything else?” 
       “The long super-smooth tube, the two-thousand milliliter capacity, the universal tapered connector, they all appear to be the best qualities for a urine collection bag.” 
       “Any other features?” 
       Dr. McKinnis ripped open the plastic to examine one of the bags. “Well, they have non-return valves and drainage outlets unlike your average bag.” 
       “Which says what?” 
       “Our perp could be dealing with serious urine and bile problems.” 
       Sandy’s delicate voice spoke. “Wouldn’t that be putting it mildly, doctor?” 
       “Mildly? How?” Dr. McKinnis asked, turning the bags every which direction. 
       “The night he tried to attack me, I grabbed him down by his private parts. Believe me, he had no genitals, whatsoever, down there. Could it be that he uses those urine bags to collect his body waste since he has no organs to release his waste?” 
       “Very possible,” Dr. McKinnis determined. “Our main person of interest could’ve suffered a major war wound and lost his private parts.” 
       Overstreet tuned up his vocals. “Doc, are you saying that his genitals could’ve been decapitated from his body?” 
       “During combat, it’s been known to happen to many soliders.” 
       “How unlucky can one guy get?” 
       Carey commandingly stepped through the bedroom door. He waved a set of medical discharge papers. “Here’s all the proof that you’ll ever need.” 
       “What proof, Cork?” Overstreet inquired. 
       The stunning discovery had Carey breathing with excitement. The stack of papers he held would’ve been considered more secretive than top FBI or CIA information. “Jerry, these documents explain why our perp wears the urine collection bags.” 
       “How, Cork?” 
       “Take a look for yourself.” 
       Carey handed over the papers to Overstreet. Having fierce reading and comprehension skills, he scanned the medical documents Charlie had sitting around after being discharged from the United States Army. Overstreet read one clause after another. Each sentence broke down details of the excruciating tragedy Charlie suffered in Vietnam. 
       “These DD 214 discharge papers tells us why Mister Charlie left the Vietnam War,” Overstreet spilled out before his colleagues.  
       “The detailed medical report explains the misfortune Charlie had to carry around for the rest of his life. He got sent back to the U. S. when the Army could no longer deal with him.” 
       “The Army packed him away with enough spin codes.” 
       “Spin codes?” 
       “The Separation Program Numbers they give you when you’re separated from military duty. Charlie Boy got a 271 code for being permanently retired by reason of physical disability.” 
       “That we can see why.” 
       “He got a 273 for physical disability with entitlement to receive severance pay.” 
       “So, he got a nice piece of change from the government after being discharged.” 
       “Well, well, well,” Overstreet contained as he read further. “Charlie got a 460 for emotional instability reaction, a 461 for inadequate personality, a 462 for mental deficiency, a 463 for paranoid personality, a 464 for schizoid personality, a 469 for unsuitability, and a 480 for personality disorder.” 
       “To make a long story short, Charlie Boy got pushed out because of mental and emotional problems.” 
       “Along with this severe wound he suffered.” 
       “What wound?” Carey asked, having not read as far into the medical report. 
       “Genital mutilation.” 
       “Eeeeeek!”  
       Overstreet summoned Dr. McKinnis from across the room. “Doc McKinnis, how would you define genital mutilation?” 
       Dr. McKinnis slipped on his best pair of reading glasses. “Detective, I once did an autopsy on a Vietnam veteran who died from complications of lung cancer. This veteran was also minus his privates due to a severe war wound. My knowledge of castration and genital mutilation is vast and researched.” 
       “The report, what can you tell us about it? How is it in relation to our perp?” 
       “To begin, wounds of the external genitalia are the most feared combat injuries, but not the most common. Soldiers were known to place their helmets over their genitalia during static trench warfare.” 
       “Guess Charlie didn’t have anything to shield himself from losing his privates.” 
       Dr. McKinnis read from one page to the next. “Wounds of the penis, scrotum, and testicles made up two to three percent of American casualties in Vietnam.” 
       “Charlie happened to be one of the two to three unfortunate percent.” 
       “More below-the-waist explosions from mines and crossfire happened during Vietnam combat. The report tells us that Charlie suffered severe injury to his corpora cavernosa and the subcutaneous tissues around the scrotal-testicular area were stitched together.” 
       “Was he beyond surgery to save his privates?” 
       “Orchiectomy or bilateral orchiectomy couldn’t’ve saved them. The severity of the injury was way beyond the skill of any surgeon.” 
       “The report explains how a powerful enemy crossfire stripped Charlie of ever making little Charlies.” 
       “Both his testicles and penis were castrated by the powerful blast of the crossfire.” 
       Though he’d killed four innocent women, Overstreet sort of felt sorry for Charlie. Like he’d sadly told Dr. McKinnis, the man didn’t have the ability to create little Charlies. He didn’t have the tools to satisfy any woman, let alone satisfy himself. How disheartening it had to be for a man to know he couldn’t procreate or enjoy a sex life. 
       “Doc, him being minus his privates explain why he uses these urine collections bags.” 
       “A special surgical procedure was performed in order for him to discharge waste from his body.” 
       “I’ll bet the VA Hospital picked up the tab for him to have that procedure done.” 
       More evidence surfaced throughout Charlie’s apartment. Boxes of Brush Creek photocopies were stashed to the side on shelves inside the closet of the front room. A banner, one stretching approximately ten feet long, fell to the floor after more boxes were removed from the closet.  
       In black bursting letters, the banner read:  WAR HAS NO BEGINNING, AND IT HAS NO ENDING. 
       The drawing of a large machete, along with a shiny thirsty blade dripping with blood, was sketched at the middle of the banner. Overstreet and Carey just couldn’t understand it. Two other detectives held the banner in mid-air for them to study.  
       “Is there a message that he’s emulated?” Carey asked Overstreet, scrupulously studying the banner for himself. 
       “It’s a cry for help, Cork,” Overstreet concluded. 
       “War has no beginning, and it has no ending? What exactly were they trying to say?” 
       “My interpretation is, war will be here until the end of time. No matter where it starts, no matter where it ends, it’ll always be with us.” 
       “Charlie is still dealing with the psychological effects of Vietnam. But why did he target innocent women as his victims?” 
       “Same question was asked of Ted Bundy and Dennis Rader.” 
       “Good point, Jerry.” 
       Overstreet reached down and shuffled through a thick stack of Brush Creek photocopies. “The question still scrambling my brains is why is this creep so infactuated with Brush Creek? It’s just a goddamn sewage system that runs several miles east and west. I love the hell out of the Grand Canyon, but I’d never worship the place like it’s God Almighty.” 
       Carey sorted through more items inside one of the boxes until he came upon something quite frightening. A group of handwritten letters were tucked away inside a black leather organizer. “Look at what we have here. Who’d have ever thought he kept personal notes to himself?” 
       “What’cha got there, Cork?” 
       “Letters and notes Charlie kept for his private collection.” 
       Overstreet was handed a stack of letters and he began to read. What he found documented in one particular letter disturbed even the sickest of minds. “Charlie had a deep rooted hatred for women. This explains why he despises the entire female race.” 
       “Why’d you say that?” 
       Sandy, Carol, The Rosenburgs, Carey and all the others, they gathered around Overstreet as he read to them the details of one letter. “Charlie explains here how he’d been mocked by a pair of Vietnamese hookers inside a brothel right before he left Vietnam.” 
       “Mocked him? How, detective?” Sandy asked, her intrigue pumped sky high. 
       Overstreet read out loud the letter laced with vengeful connotations: “The night was peaceful and mysterious. I, Charles Robert Rastelli, happened to run upon two chink hookers from a nearby village. These two whores were about twenty or twenty-one. They pulled at my sleeves and begged me in broken English to come and have a good time with them inside one of those hot and smelly rooms. Even though I knew I couldn’t satisfy neither them nor myself, I went with them anyway. They began to take their clothes off. They told me to take my clothes off. At first I was shy, knowing I had nothing down there to work with. When I pulled down my pants and underwear, they pointed at me and started laughing. These two insensitive chink whores laughed and laughed and laughed, and they kept laughing until their mouths were drained from laughter. From that point on, no other woman, whether in Vietnam or anywhere else in the world, was going to laugh at me. Every bitch, every whore, every cunt, every female parasite, they’re going to pay for what those two Asian bitches did to me. I hate all women of the world and every woman will be exterminated when I’m done.” 
       Overstreet mesmerized everyone with his thorough reading of the letter. One man setting out on a mission to kill every human female on the Earth was shocking.  
       Would he do it if he were given the full resources? Would he wipe out all womankind if the opportunity were available to him.  
       “This psychotic sonofabitch has got to be stopped,” Overstreet coerced, his blood pressure having shot up. 
       “Sounds like women’s extermination from the planet would be very satisfactory to him.” 
       “The letter tells us that an unfortunate event in a Vietnamese brothel is what aggravated him into murdering innocent women.” 
       “He wants every woman to pay for what a couple of women did to him.” 
       “Sounds unfair to me.” 
       “Charlie is beyond rational, beyond being reasonable.” 
       “Sick he might be, but unintelligent he isn’t. Charlie has smarts and knows how to use it to his advantage.” 
       Carey dug to the bottom of another box and made another substantial discovery. “Jerry, will ya take a look at this?” 
       “You found something else, Cork?” 
       “This right here will tell the whole story.” 
       Overstreet turned a white sheet of paper sideways. The pencil drawing of a makeshift altar overlooking the sewage waters of Brush Creek was sketched onto the paper. Underneath the first sketch was another drawing of women’s bodies lying around the altar. 
       “This drawing here, it explains why he used Brush Creek to dump the bodies,” Overstreet pointed out. “This drawing shows how he killed the women and sacrificed them to Brush Creek.” 
       “Of all places, why Brush Creek?” 
       Their findings only got scarier. 
       “The proof stands here in these drawings. Brush Creek is like a sacrificial ground for his murdered victims.” 
       “What about the mutilated body parts in the trashbags?” 
       “I’d say to make transportation easier and to make a statement.” 
       “Why kinda statement?” 
       “His method of killing.” 
       Homicide detectives searched more areas of the apartment for clues. No stones were left unturned. Luckily for the crime lab, more blood samples were found in non-descript areas. Low velocity blood droplets were discovered near the front door. Did Charlie not scrub the floor hard enough with his cleaning agents? Clue after clue turned up around the apartment. In one of the boxes, photos of Charlie and his fellow combat troopers were stacked neatly inside of envelopes. 
       Overstreet walked up to Joseph Rosenburg. “Mr. Rosenburg, when Charles applied for residency here at The Rosenburg Apartments, did you know anything about his background?” 
       “Such as?” Joseph said with a confident face. 
       “His military service in Vietnam. His mental state of health. His criminal and family background.” 
       “Detective, after processing his application, no criminal convictions surfaced. Charles showed that he had a stable work and rental history, and that he’d been an honorable soldier during the Vietnam war. I had no reason, whatsoever, to deny him residency here.” 
       “Any complaints from other residents?” 
       “Other than occasional loud noises, there weren’t many complaints.” 
       “Do you know he’s employed by Gomez Foods?” 
       “Yes, the food processing plant down on Southwest Boulevard.” 
       “Were you ever suspicious of his character?” 
      “Charlie never gave me any notion that he was this psychotic killer.” 
       “No one had a notion, Mr. Rosenburg.” 
       Overstreet flashed a finger signal at Carey. “Cork, how about you pay Gomez Foods a visit.” 
       “No problem, Jerry.” 
       “Find out what you can. Talk to his co-workers who might’ve known Charlie on a more personable level.” 
       “Should I start with the owner of the company?” 
       “Wouldn’t hurt.” 
       “I’m on it, Jerry.” 
       “Get down there first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, I’ll be paying the Union Station and the VA Hospital visits. Also, we’re going to issue an all points bulletin on this guy.” 
       “Great idea.” 
       “Charlie’s first victim, Lisa Wallace, I couldn’t get any surveillance footage out of the IRS’ security division around the time she was murdered. The thought hit me, Union Station has all kinds of surveillance covering that area. Had I thought about it before, maybe Charlie wouldn’t’ve had three other victims to follow in Lisa’s wake.” 
       “And the VA Hospital?” 
       “It’s a sure shot that the VA has medical records on this Charles Robert Rastelli. Doc McKinnis may have scraped samples of his blood off the vics, which he’s proven that Charlie’s carrying Agent Orange.” 
       “He has Agent Orange?” 
       “Like a businessman carrying around his briefcase.” 
       “The man is dying and probably don’t even know it.” 
       A detective inside the bathroom summoned Overstreet and Carey. “Jerry and Cork, come in here and take a look at this.” 
       Overstreet and Carey went into the bathroom and looked over at the medicine cabinet. 
       “Can ya believe this?” the detective asked his superiors. 
       Overstreet picked up one medication bottle after another. “What was this guy doing, running a pharmacy?” 
       “Looks like all of his prescribed medicines,” Carey said, holding the bottles up to the light. 
       “Xanax? Prozac? Zoloft?” Overstreet named off. “Lexapro? Pristiq? Cymbalta? Celena? Seroquel XR? Charlie puts enough drugs into his system to stay high for a whole week.” 
       “Depression and him have a lot in common. Charlie is a walking timebomb.” 
       “Before he detonates again, we’ve got to take him off the streets. These depression medications are probably making him crazier by the day.” 
       “Vietnam could be to blame.” 
       Overstreet summoned the expertise of the best medical examiner around. “Doc McKinnis, can I see you here in the bathroom?” 
       Dr. McKinnis took a break from his collection of evidence. “What can I do for you, detective?” 
       “Whaddaya make of all this depression medication?” 
       “Charlie’s a suicide waiting to happen. Being prescribed all these anti-depressants can only increase his suicidal thoughts and behaviors.” 
       “How about his homicidal thoughts and abnormal behaviors?” 
       Charlie grew into a crazier monster by the day. 
       “Chances are, Charlie has life-threatening illnesses which leads him to commit homicides of unspeakable dimensions.” 
       “Life-threatening illnesses such as?” 
       “Cirrhosis, pancreatic cancer, diabetes, and brain atrophy. All these bottles of medications are a testament to that.” 
       “Is his state of mental illness worsening by the day?” 
       “I’d say by every hour of every day.” 
       “A sick mind and a sick body are an atrocious combination.” 
       A call for Overstreet and Carey came from inside the front room. More evidence was being discovered all over the apartment. Another detective handed Overstreet a sheet of paper with clues tied to Charlie. 
       “This is a reminder letter for one of Charlie’s appointments at the VA,” Overstreet said. 
       “From a Dr. Peter Lindenthal at the Agent Orange Clinic inside the VA?” Carey asked. 
       “This Dr. Lindenthal came from the Southern California Neurology Assocation.” 
       “Looks like Charlie Boy made a few visits to see this doctor for his Agent Orange treatments.” 
       “I’ll be making a visit to see this doc after I see what I can find out over at Union Station.” 
       “Wonder if he’s been to any of his appointments lately? The date on this reminder letter is over two years ago.” 
       “Discouragement must’ve set in. Most of those guys never recover from Agent Orange.” 
       Everyone inside Charlie’s apartment had finished the purpose they’d come to serve. All DNA evidence was collected and ready to be sent to the lab. The Rosenburgs gave Overstreet and Carey all the information they needed. Derrick and Mitchell were a big help themselves.  
       The machete was carefully wrapped in plastic and carried out by the crime lab. Sandy stood by the window facing the busy street below. Daydreams engulfed her mind until a known figure walking amongst a group of people showed up. Not again! No way could it be the same man whose apartment was presently being searched.  
       “Lieutenant Overstreet, can you come over here by the window, please?” Sandy cordially requested, a sheet of fright surrounding her. 
       “What is it, Sandy?” 
       “Please come here for a second.” 
       “If you insist.” 
       Sandy pointed towards the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. “My mind’s been known to play tricks on me, but I believe that that’s Charlie right down there.” 
       “You think it’s the same guy who we chased the night we ran out of the Japanese restaurant downtown?” 
       “Yes.” 
       “Doesn’t look like the same guy to me,” Overstreet scoped tightly, trying his hardest to make out an identity. 
       “I’m telling you, Lieutenant, he’s full of tricks. He changes his look like a leopard changes its spots.” 
       “Wanna go out there and take a look?” 
       “Listen to me, he’s after me. The shitbag won’t stop until he kills me.” 
       “Do you want us to put you into protective custody?” 
       “No, I’ll be fine.” 
       “One thing’s for sure, he won’t be coming back here anymore.” 
       “Where do you think he’ll go?” 
       “He’s probably already done picked out a hiding spot.” 
       “Brush Creek, maybe?” 
       “Very possible.” 
       “If not there, then where?” 
       “Somewhere until we apprehend him. In fact, I doubt he’ll return to work.” 
       Overstreet requested for Charlie’s apartment to be put under twenty-four hour surveillance. Would he be foolish enough to return? For investigational purposes, a no trespassing sign was to be posted to keep intruders away. Charlie was a wanted man and the police department stopped at nothing to bring him into custody. 
  CHAPTER—50 
       Carey arrived at Gomez Foods just before 9:00 o’clock a.m. on a sunny Wednesday morning. The assembly of hardworking Mexican men had the huge kettles fired up and ready to cook barbeque sauce and cheesecake in a jar. The aroma shot up Carey’s nose and created a euphoria of culinary delight. The owner of Gomez Foods, Sal Badalementi, a fifth generation business owner of esteemed Italian descent, greeted Carey at the side door leading to the food plant. He’d been expecting him after a cordial phone call. 
       “Detective Schroeder?” Sal said, his hand extended forward. 
       “Sal Badalementi?” Carey inquired, exchanging a firm handshake with Sal. 
       “Welcome to Gomez Foods.” 
       “My pleasure, Sal. Can we go somewhere and talk in private?” 
       “Sure, my office is right through here.” 
       Sal led Carey through a set of doors and past an area with busy office workers.  
       Carey couldn’t figure out how a full-blooded Italian owned and operated a food company entitled “Gomez Foods”. The company produced lots of sauces and dips and salsas to compliment Mexican and American dishes. Their accounts with prestigious companies were enormous. Their yearly profit margins were juicy, considering Gomez Foods had accounts with large companies overseas. Sorry Carey, but Sal built his company on the strength of hard work and shrewdness, not by relying on criminal goons to muscle in on competitors. 
       “Food around here smells delicious,” Carey sniffed with an inviting smile. 
       “Thanks a lot, detective. We try to produce the best for our customers.” 
       “What’re some of your products?” 
       “Barbeque sauce, martini ball, cheesecake in a jar, hot sauce, spicy jelly, just to name a few. Today, we’ve got barbeque sauce and cheesecake in a jar being cooked and packaged.” 
       “You’re making me hungry.” 
       “We aim to please.” 
       Carey flipped open a brown leather binder and fished out a digital photo. “I think you know why I made this trip here to Gomez Foods. Does this guy look familiar?” 
       Sal placed the enhanced photo close to his face. “That’s Charlie.” 
       “Charles Rastelli, right?” 
       “Correct, detective.” 
       “When’s the last time he’s been to work?” 
       “Been almost a month.” 
       “What kinda worker is he?” 
       “Hard worker. Always on time. Never gives anybody any trouble.” 
       “Substantiating words for a monster who’s responsible for four gruesome murders.” 
       “Four murders?” Sal wavered, not believing what he’d just heard. 
       “We have enough DNA evidence to tie Charlie to all four murders. Charlie is not only sick in the mind, but he’s also sick in the body. He’s on enough medications to send someone into mass hysteria. Did you know that he’s infected with Agent Orange?” 
       “That I didn’t know. But I do know that he’s a Vietnam Veteran.” 
       “Charlie is a dying man. When you hired him, did you check into his medical history?” 
       “No, but we did receive his DD 214 discharge papers.” 
       “Did you check any of the separation program numbers on the discharge papers?” 
       “No, but did recognize that he was discharged under honorable conditions.” 
       “Even under an honorable discharge, the spin codes can hurt a veteran’s chance of being hired by a prospective employer. His discharge papers explain that he suffers from emotional and mental and schizoid problems. I’ve never done military service, but have relatives who’ve served in wars, and they come back home not correct in the mind and in the body.” 
       “Sorry if we missed those codes that restricts him from being a part of the workforce.” 
       “No need to be sorry, Sal. Let me repeat what my colleagues on the police force said. Anyone in the city could be his next victim. Did you ever hear him mention anything about his troubles of being in Vietnam?” 
       “Nothing in particular.” 
       “You sure?” 
       Sal made a familiar sound at Carey. “I’ll tell you what I did find strange about something he ranted to himself inside the bathroom one busy afternoon. He fizzled off something about a couple’a women laughing at him.” 
       The mentioning of a couple of women laughing at Charlie registered right away with Carey.  
       The letter found in his closet explained it all. Charlie hated all women. The two Vietnamese hookers were the tiny sparks which grew into roaring blazes.  
       “Did he fizzle off about anything else?” 
       “Not exactly, but the raving about the women laughing at him occurred more than once.” 
       “How’d Charlie get along with your other employees?” 
       “Quite well, to be exact. As you can see, almost all of my employees are young Mexican men. You can’t get this kinda hard work and dedication out of Americans.” 
       Carey shook his head in agreement. He’d dealt with his share of lazy Americans. “Has he called in within the last month?” 
       “Haven’t seen or heard from him within that time.” 
       “Is he due a payroll check?” 
       “About a week’s worth.” 
       “Think he’ll come by to pick it up?” 
       “Can’t say, detective. Maybe if he knows that you’re looking for him, then he probably won’t be seen around here no more.” 
       “We found out that he receives a check every month from the government.” 
       Sal reached into his memory bank. “There’s something strange about Charlie that I think you’d like to know.” 
       “Which is?” 
       “One time Charlie came to work with some nasty scars across his arms and neck. Myself and his co-workers were concerned and made our own inquiries. These looked like scars from doing battle with someone. The blood looked like it hadn’t dried all the way, and looked like they’d get infected over time.” 
       “Charlie is a very dangerous man, no doubt about that. Either we take him off the streets, or more bodies are going to turn up dead, particularly down in Brush Creek.” 
       “Why Brush Creek?” 
       “All four of his victims were found dismembered in trashbags down in Brush Creek.” 
       “Dam!” Sal retorted. “It’s creepy to know that one of my employees is a psychopathic killer. Nowadays, you can’t tell one person from the next.” 
       “That’s where the masterful, pretentious side of people come out.” 
       “Know something else, detective.” 
       “I’m listening.” 
       “Charlie casually told me that he’d been nicknamed ‘Charlie The Machete’ during his service in Vietnam.” 
       “We later found out just how proficient he was with a machete. It might’ve been his weapon of choice to mutilate those four women. You’re not dealing with no ordinary man here. He’s cunning and deceptive, not to mention evil and egotistical.” 
       “None of the real signs registered with me.” 
       Carey reached into suitjacket pocket and fished out one of his cards. “Listen, if you either see or hear from Charlie, please don’t hesitate to give me a call. I don’t care what time of day it is. Call me at home or at the headquarters.” 
       “You’ll know something when I know something.” 
       “Thanks, Sal.” 
       “You’re quite welcome, detective.” 
       Carey left Gomez Foods in search for more clues to find the whereabouts of Charlie. 
  CHAPTER—51 
       Overstreet stepped inside the world-renowned Union Station with the sole intention of hopefully catching Charlie on videotape. Built in 1914, Union Station encompassed 850,000 square feet, originally featuring nine-hundred rooms. In its prime as a working train station, the station accommodated tens of thousands of passengers every year. At its peak during World War II, an estimated one million travelers passed through the station. Closed in the 1980s, Union Station sat empty and neglected, escaping demolition on several occasions.  
       As he went through the main corridor, Overstreet marveled at the Grand Hall’s ninety-five foot ceiling, the three 3,500 pound chandeliers, and the six-foot wide clock hanging in the Station’s central arch. Like Charlie having a fanatical eye for Brush Creek, Overstreet had his own private admiration for an engineering marvel like Union Station. To know that a group of gangsters shot it out with a group of federal agents, fascinated him to no end. The Kansas City native knew how the city he was born and raised in was a one-time mecca for gangsters. 
       Overstreet approached the information desk with his personal brown leather binder. “Excuse me, but who can I speak to who’s in charge here at Union Station?” 
       A frail elderly woman with fluffy white hair answered Overstreet in a screechy voice. “May I ask who you are, sir?” 
       “Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD,” Overstreet replied with due respect, flashing his badge for identification purposes. 
       “Well, Susan Braxton is our director of community relations. Gordon Cascone is our chief executive officer. Henry Martinez is our director of technical and building operations.” 
       “Henry is probably the person I need to speak with.” 
       “May I ask what this is in regards to?” 
       “It’s in regards to an investigation.” 
        The receptionist phoned the technical and building operator. Within minutes, all of the one-hundred and seventy pounds, five-foot-nine inch frame of Henry Martinez came strutting across the glossy floor. His pair of Giorgio Armani shoes clapped hard into the floor.  
       “I’m building operator Henry Martinez. What can I help you with?” 
       “I’m Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD’s homicide division. I just needed to ask you a few questions. Can we go somewhere and talk privately?” 
       “Sure, we can go to my office.” 
       Overstreet followed Henry past a crowd of high school students on their way to Science City in the lower section of Union Station. Henry offered Overstreet a seat and a cup of coffee once they got into his office. Sophisticated video monitors surrounded nearly every inch of wall space. Computer surveillance equipment sat on three adjoining desks. 
       “Now, what can I do for you, Lieutenant?” 
       “I’m investigating a string of murders which involves one of the victims who worked across the street at the IRS.” 
       “How can I help you?” 
       “First, let me explain this to you. The video surveillance equipment over at the IRS that was shown to me by their security personnel, only covers so many square feet of perimeter around their building. It frustrated me to end that their security force couldn’t clue in on our possible suspect. One of their employees might’ve been on video the day her killer came upon her. How much area does your video equipment cover?” 
       “Going from east to west, our cameras can pick up areas from Grand to Broadway. From north to south, the cameras can pick up from Twenty-Third to Twenty-Seventh Streets.” 
       “How many cameras do you have on these premises?” 
       “Eight total, Lieutenant. Four in the front of the building, four in the back of the building.” 
       Overstreet looked around the office with amazement. “You’ve got some pretty hi-tech stuff here.” 
       “The best money can buy. All courtesy, of course, at the taxpayer’s expense.” 
       “Explain to me what you’re working with.” 
       Henry pointed to the toys he played with on a daily basis. “This DVR8/8-PR is an eight camera professional grade surveillance unit that includes a PC, two 4 Channel DVR Capture cards and EZ Watch Pro software. This system uses the new high quality industry standard H.264 compression technology for video storage, and supports a full thirty frames per second live viewing and recording on all cameras connected to the DVR card.” 
       “You’re speaking a language quite foreign to me. How clear of a picture does your equipment have?” 
       “At a resolution of 704 by 480, there is excellent detail from our high resolution security cameras.” 
       “How well does it pick up sound images?” 
       “Our system records eight channels of high quality audio by the connection of an optional microphone to each of the audio inputs.” 
       “How far back does your video equipment store image information?” 
       “How far back do you need me to go?” 
       Overstreet flipped open his binder. He glided his finger down to the date closest to when Lisa Wallace was murdered. “Can you go back as far as the first two or three weeks of September?” 
       “Should be able to.” 
       Henry went to work on the video toys he adored. It helped having a one-thousand gig storage built into the equipment. A few taps on the keyboard and the advanced date and time search popped up on the twenty inch LCD monitor. He started with the first day of September and scrolled from one screen to another. Overstreet was particularly interested in video footage of Pershing Road since Lisa Wallace could’ve been seen with her killer on that designated street. 
       “Anything look familiar, Lieutenant?” 
       “Nothing so far.” 
       “Am I going too fast?” 
       “No, not at all.” 
       One day of September rolled after another. The 29th of September struck Overstreet like a sharp pain in the side. The time and date were written in the upper right corner. 
       “Stop right there!” Overstreet requested, pointing his inkpen at the screen. 
       “Found what you’re looking for?” 
       “Yes, it’s possible they’re the subjects we’re interested in.” 
       “The man and the woman?” 
       “Can you zoom in closer?” 
       “Sure can.” 
       Henry provided picture enhancement. He added some brightness, contrast, saturation, and some hue. There it was. The exact same day when Charlie pulled over on Pershing Road to offer Lisa some assistance during her crisis of car troubles.  
       “Good Lord in Heaven!” Overstreet snubbed, stunned from what he saw on the giant computer screen. 
       “Everything okay, Lieutenant?” 
       “The man responsible for killing and dismembering the four women in Brush Creek. That’s him in this video footage.” 
       “Are you serious?” 
       “The woman in this footage, she might’ve been his first victim.” 
       Henry frowned as he looked closer into the monitor. “My goodness! What happened to his face?” 
       “Only a doctor who knows about Vietnam War experiments can explain it to you.” 
       “He looks like a creature or something. That’s definitely a nightmare-of-a-face.” 
       “Can you please make me two good snapshots of this frame?” 
       “Coming right up, Lieutenant.” 
       Falling right into the tray of the printer were the two copies Overstreet requested. They were crisp and clear. Charlie’s mug could’ve been sold to a horror magazine. Overstreet tucked photos and video footage under his arm and moved on to his next destination. 
  CHAPTER—52 
       Overstreet got hit with a burst of sunlight as he walked past a big window inside the Kansas City VA Medical Center. Opened in 1952, the center earned a rich legacy of providing quality care to the men and women who’ve proudly served the United States. American heroes they truly were. Overstreet couldn’t’ve been prouder to be in their presence. The brave men and women who put their lives on the line to protect the freedom and democracy of their country.  
       The Kansas City VA Medical Center stayed busy. Nurses and doctors and patients plodded from room-to-room, from one office to the next. Sitting at an oval desk inside the main lobby was a blonde beauty Overstreet might’ve wanted to marry before he found his one and only true love. The elegant woman sure worked the tight black skirt with the long split on the side. She captured his full attention.      
       “May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked Overstreet, her powdery blues pumping his adrenalin. 
       “Yes, I’m looking for a Dr. Peter Lindenthal,” Overstreet requested, keeping his full composure. 
       “You are, sir?” 
       Overstreet produced his badge and identification. “Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD’s homicide division. I’d like to ask Dr. Lindenthal a few questions.” 
       The receptionist snatched up the phone and punched in the digits. “Dr. Lindenthal, there’s a Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet up here who’d like to speak with you.” 
       She smiled at Overstreet and said, “This is in regards to what?” 
       “A patient of his.” 
        She hung up after receiving further orders. “Dr. Lindenthal will be up momentarily.” 
       “Thank you.” 
       “You’re welcome, sir.” 
       Overstreet stood around watching the trafficking of many people. The sight of watching many war veterans come and go with limbs missing wasn’t nice. He felt so sorry for them. Defending their country came at a price. Hopping around on crutches and rolling around in wheelchairs had to be depressing. They fought on foreign battlefields, only to return home filled with diseases and ridiculed by their fellow American citizens.  
       Strutting his stuff, wearing his white physician’s jacket, while also carrying patient’s charts, was Dr. Peter Lindenthal. All six-foot-two of his lean frame approached Overstreet. 
       “Lieutenant Overstreet?” Dr. Lindenthal gestured with his arm extended. 
       “Dr. Lindenthal?” Overstreet gestured back with a wavering finger. 
       “Yes, I’m Dr. Peter Lindenthal. How can I help you?” 
       “There’s a matter of urgent business that I need to speak with you about.” 
       “Lieutenant, I have several patients that I need to see.” 
       “Doc, please put your patients on hold, just for a few minutes. This matter deals with life or death.” 
       “My patients are also dealing with matters of life and death.” 
       “Doc, it’s very very important. Please trust me on this one.” 
       “If you insist. Nadine, please hold my calls.” 
       Overstreet followed Dr. Lindenthal down a long narrow hallway with rows of physician offices.  
       Once inside his office, he offered Overstreet a seat as he got comfortable behind his desk.    “Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” 
       Overstreet reached into his suitjacket and handed the doctor a small sheet of white paper. “This look familiar to you, doc?” 
       “Yes, it’s a prescription filled out for Charles Rastelli.” 
       He whipped out another sheet of paper for the doctor to look at. “Does this paper remind you of anything?” 
       “Yes, it’s an appointment slip for Charles Rastelli.” 
       Overstreet looked around his office. Degrees of high magnitude graced the walls. A VA plaque with, We value trust, respect, commitment, compassion, and excellence, hung right behind his seat.  
       “Well, doc, I see that you spent some time with Charles Rastelli.” 
       “That I did, Lieutenant.” 
       “You helped treat him and write his prescriptions.” 
       “Yes I did.” 
       “You also knew that Charles had mental and emotional problems.” 
       “As my patient, I knew about that.” 
       “Doc, did you know that Charles is a dying man?” 
       “From my prognosis, his condition remained stable.” 
       “Did you know that he’s responsible for four gruesome murders?” 
       “No, I wasn’t aware of that.” 
       “Between carrying Agent Orange and all of those medications, he’s dying by the minute.” 
       “Charles hasn’t been to the clinic in quite some time.” 
       “We found that out when we searched his apartment. We discovered the prescriptions and appointments written by yourself. The dates on those were quite some time ago. When’s the last time he actually came to see you?” 
       “Almost a year ago.” 
       “How was he able to keep getting those prescriptions filled?” 
       “Your guess is as good as mine’s, Lieutenant. A lot of medications are brought on the black market. I’d usually write him a month’s supply at a time.” 
       “The dates on those prescription bottles are from several months ago. Doc, tell me about Charles coming here to the Agent Orange Clinic for treatment.” 
       “When Charles was screened and tested for Agent Orange, he’d been diagnosed with great exposure to the chemical used in Vietnam. I noticed the swift onset and rapid progression of diseases that were peculiar to himself and Agent Orange.” 
       “How’d he react when you broke the news to him?” 
       “Not happy at all. He’d been informed how important early detection was.” 
       “How’d he pay for his treatments and medications?” 
       “Through Medicare and a government supplemental health insurance plan.” 
       “Since he was a veteran?” 
       “Exactly.” 
       Overstreet had a knack for picking away at other people’s brains. “Doc, you are, of course, a board-certified neurologist and American board-certified psychiatrist. You’re also certified with the board of clinical neurophysiology.” 
       “Hmmmmmm,” Dr. Lindenthal murmured. “I see you’ve done your homework, Lieutenant. In your line of work, it’s in your best interest to know about the people you interview.” 
       “A vicious serial killer is on the loose. We don’t have a second to lose. It is well understood that you are one of the leading experts on the effects of Agent Orange on the body.” 
       “Screening, testing, and treating patients with the effects of Agent Orange is what I do.” 
       “Psychiatry is also what you specialize in. Did you ever see Charlie for any psychiatric problems?” 
       “Charlie had severe mental and emotional problems. During several of our sessions, symptoms of post traumatic stress syndrome, which are common for most veterans of combat, had begun to surface.” 
       “Symptoms of what nature?” 
       “Shakiness, muscle aches, sweating, dizziness, fatigue, racing heart, and dry mouth. Illusions and hallucinations and flashback episodes were common during our sessions together.” 
       “Hallucinations and flashback episodes of what nature?” 
       “Irritability and outbursts of anger and hypervigilance.” 
       “Give me an example of one of his outbursts of anger.” 
       Dr. Lindenthal had several to present to Overstreet. 
       “For example, one time he just hauled off and said that he’d get even with those two chink hookers one day. He lashed out and said that all women were bitches and their extermination from this Earth would be delightfully satisfactory in his eyes.” 
       “When he said chink hookers, did you know what he was talking about?” 
       “Not a clue, Lieutenant.” 
       “As his shrink, did you understand why he felt that all women are bitches, and how he wanted them exterminated from the Earth?” 
       “Again, not a clue, Lieutenant.” 
       “Did you ask him to explain himself further?” 
       “Yes, but he refused to elaborate further.” 
       “Any other outbursts during any of your sessions?” 
       Dr. Lindenthal shoveled into his memory and came up with something rather substantial. “One time, he jumped out of his seat with balled fists and clenched teeth, then shouted, ‘War has no beginning, and it has no ending’!” 
       “Searching his apartment the other day, we found a sketched drawing of a machete stained with blood, with the very same raged statement. When he lashed out with such a statement, did you know what he was talking about?” 
       “A statement of that nature can be interpreted many different ways. I served as a medical officer on active duty in the Marine Corps. Charlie is one of thousands of soldiers who feel exactly as he does. War can start from nowhere, and it can end from nowhere. To throw a logical explanation out there, I’d say that war will never be over for him. The memories are buried deep in his mind and will haunt him forever.” 
       “Doc, do you also know that Charles suffered genital mutilation during the Vietnam War?” 
       “I’m very aware of that.” 
       “Psychologically, how does that affect him?” 
       “In many ways,” Dr. Lindenthal certified. “Not being able to enjoy sexual intercourse has its ramifications. Not being able to procreate has its grave disadvantages. Not being able to cultivate meaningful relationships with the opposite sex creates bitterness.” 
       “Did Charles tell you these things?” 
       “Spread out over several sessions, he laid everything out on the table.” 
       Overstreet unfolded two sheets of crinkly notebook paper. He handed them over to Dr. Lindenthal. “Take a look at this letter, doc, and tell me what you think.” 
       Dr. Lindenthal slipped on his reading glasses. Line after line, he interpreted the letter of a vigilante seeking sole revenge. “My God, he does have a deep rooted hatred for women. So, it was two Vietnamese prostitutes who ridiculed him for being a victim of genital mutilation. This letter explains the basis for his anger towards all women.” 
       “This anger, this resentment towards all women, it might’ve triggered him to murder and mutilate all four women found in trashbags down in Brush Creek.” 
       “Yes, Lieutenant, I’ve followed all four of those murder stories. But I would’ve never suspected that Charles would be the one responsible for them.” 
       “Doc, we found the murder weapon inside the closet of his apartment. Charles used a Full Tang Monster Machete to dismember his victim’s bodies. One might ask, why a machete to mutilate a human body?” 
       “Apparently, Charles had flashbacks of cutting down tall vegetation through the jungles of Vietnam while dismembering the bodies. The flashback episodes of the Vietnamese prostitutes laughing at him set off that time bomb.” 
       Overstreet reached into his leather binder and produced some photos from the beginning of the nineteen seventies. “Take a look at these.” 
       “Must’ve been during his tour of duty in Vietnam.” 
       “Had to be before his incident.” 
       “Patients like Charlie were usually admitted to the hospital in shock while early attention was directed to his life-threatening problems, delaying any definitive treatment until his condition stabilized.” 
       “Do you know about him wearing a urine collection bag?” 
       “Suffering a below-the-waist explosion from heavy artillery, and not having a penis nor scrotum to expel urinary waste, yes, I know very well about him wearing a urine collection bag.” 
       “Do you think that also affects him psychologically?” 
       “Why wouldn’t it? Everytime he releases the urine from the bag, or when he changes an old bag for a new one, it’s a constant reminder of not having private parts. Lieutenant, the man is haunted by many demons from the Vietnam War.” 
       Overstreet dug into the side sleeve of his binder and generated a close-up mugshot of Charlie. “Alright Doc, I want you to take a good look at Charles’ face. Can you explain the extreme ravages of acne his face is plagued with?” 
       “Other than severe acne during his adolescent or early adulthood years, there’s no other explaination to give.” 
       “Dr. Anthony McKinnis is our chief medical examiner. Dr. Barney Purvis is one of our top forensic pathologists. Both of these doctors are brilliant minds, geniuses in their own right, such as yourself, Dr. Lindenthal.” 
       “Why thank you, Lieutenant,” Dr. Lindenthal obliged with pride. 
       “It’s the truth, Doc. After processing the crime scenes down in Brush Creek, DNA from our perpetrator was found on the victims. Blood samples were sent to the lab. DNA in the blood showed that our suspect had high levels of Dioxin, which is a substance that causes a condition called chloracne.” 
       “I’m quite familiar with that condition. Several casualties who came back from Vietnam suffered from chloracne.” 
       “The doctors explained to me that Dioxin is one of the main chemicals found in Agent Orange.” 
       “Yes it is.” 
       “We all know that Charlie isn’t the prettiest thing to look at. He’s been dubbed as the man with a ‘nightmare-of-a-face’.” 
       “I wouldn’t want a face like his.” 
       “Nobody would,” Overstreet detested. “Again, psychologically, does Charles resent the fact that he possesses a face marked with pits and scars and such?” 
       “Everyone knows how a disfiguring skin condition can bring down one’s self-esteem. Charles is no exception. He probably questions himself about not being desirable by someone of the opposite sex for having a skin condition which makes him feel unattractive. Teenagers, even lots of adults, are taunted by the burden of having to keep their acne conditions in check.” 
       “Well, Doc, I was told a long time ago that we were either blessed or cursed by our genes.” 
       “A very profound philosophy, indeed. There are those who are blessed with good genes, and there are those who are cursed with bad genes. Some have to go through life and play the hand they’re dealt.” 
       Dr. Lindenthal threw profound philosophies at Overstreet. 
       “Between being ostracized by Vietnamese hookers over in Vietnam, having suffered genital mutilation, wearing urine collection bags, taking every depression medication under the sun, not getting any attention from women, isn’t it fair to say, Doc, that Charlie has been created into some type of modern day Frankenstein?” 
       “A monster, indeed. Lieutenant, we’re talking about a man who’s got far too many demons to keep under control.” 
       “Is it also fair to say that the U. S. Army are to blame for helping create this very monster?” 
       “I’d give you an answer, but it’d be rather complex. Many veterans returning home from combat suffer from drug and alcohol addiction, promiscuity, mental incapacitation, loneliness, withdrawal from society, and many other problems. Many people believe that our United States Government is to blame for turning perfectly sane and sensitive people into insane and unmoralistic animals.” 
       “They believe that war is unnecessary.” 
       “Necessary for the special interest groups. Unnecessary for those who have to bleed and die for. Catch my drift?” 
       “Your drift I certainly catch. Doc, there’s something that eats away at my curiosity. Charlie is infactuated with Brush Creek. Better yet, he’s obsessed with Brush Creek, the very structure and existence of the creek itself. During any of your sessions, did he ever talk about how much he admired Brush Creek?” 
       “All the time,” Dr. Lindenthal conceded. “During one particular session, he detailed for me the engineering outline of Brush Creek. Charles told me how as a little boy he played down in Brush Creek, how he found solace down there when his parents mistreated him.” 
       The interview between Overstreet and Dr. Lindenthal got interesting. 
       “We searched his apartment the other day. His walls were covered with large posters of Brush Creek, starting from one end to the other. The big flood of 1977, it looked like he had a special frame made for it, the aerial view of the flood waters in particular. The man has this sickening fetish for an area that is nothing but concrete and woods and raw sewage waters and animals. One of my detectives found a sketching of an altar built right into the open woods of Brush Creek with the dead body of a woman laid across it. Is it unusual for someone to be freaked out over such a place as Brush Creek?” 
       “Quite unusual, Lieutenant. Charles is mentally ill and he has attached himself to something he feels is harmless and non-judgemental.” 
       “Doc, I’m going to need copies of his medical and mental records.” 
       “Detective, I can’t give you those records.” 
       Overstreet slid out a subpoena signed by a court-appointed judge. Dr. Lindenthal read over all the fine print.  
       The clause stating the disclosure of veteran’s medical records as not being violative of the Veterans’ Records Statute, struck a nerve which caused him to shake his head. “So, this court ordered subpoena reverses the challenge for the release of a veteran’s medical records and remanded for redetermination of their statutory and constitutional arguments?” 
       “The documents are authentic as can be.” 
       “No, I don’t question their authenticity. Our records department can provide you with whatever records you need.” 
       “Dr. Lindenthal, I thank you for your time.” 
       “My pleasure, Lieutenant Overstreet.” 
       Overstreet had enough artillery to bury Charlie at the center of the Earth. 
  CHAPTER—53 
       Did anyone throughout the city know of Charlie’s whereabouts? This was the trillion dollar question.  An all points bulletin was issued by the KCPD over to the FBI and the Jackson County Sheriff’s Office. Local news stations lit up television screens around the city. Reporters told everyone how dangerous of a person Charles Rastelli really was. Overstreet provided the media with all the information they needed to warn everyone around the city. He turned over photos and video footage to them. 
       Citizens knew to be on the lookout for the man with the nightmare-of-a-face. Now a game of hide-and-seek was played between Charlie and the law. Where in the hell was he hiding? He never returned to his apartment or his place of employment. The KCPD and the FBI had staked out Brush Creek for several days. Day-after-day, they came up empty. Officers and Agents were posted up at KCI Airport and the Greyhound Bus Station. Canines were sent into the tunnels of Brush Creek and came up with nothing. 
       It irked law enforcement to know the bastard might’ve slipped through their hands. Wanted posters for the notorious figure who called himself “Charlie The Machete” decorated most parts of the city. A reward for up to $60,000 dollars was being offered to anyone giving tips which could lead to his arrest. The news painted a horrifying picture of the man which caused people to keep their doors locked. The sales of firearms escalated to even greater numbers. 
       Saturday night around Brush Creek remained relatively quiet. Just past midnight, only three days before Christmas, the lights decorating the houses near the creek, they lit up the streets and part of the woods. The one soldier who refused to give up stood many yards opposite of the Navy Operational Support Center. Why would Sandy Barnholtz stand like a mannequin in the grass on a frosty cold winter night? She figured it out within recent weeks. Charlie wanted her dead.  
       As long as she was still alive, she’d be just the game for him to hunt. Charlie stood by his favorite mantra: War has no beginning, and it has no ending. He snacked on danger. He dined on death. Sandy would be the perfect snack for him to dine on. The ducks whisked across the nighttime skies. The squirrels hopped from tree limb to tree limb. Rabbits shot up from their holes for some playtime. Racoons and possums trampled through the damp soil in the woods. All the wildlife in Brush Creek were the only present company Sandy had. 
       She had to be the bravest female soul alive. She knew Charlie hadn’t been captured yet. Him being on the loose didn’t concern her much. The psycho being captured would bring her the greatest satisfaction. A constant stream of cars cruised up and down Brush Creek Bouelvard. A shadowy figure emerged from the side of the Navy Operational Support Center. The shadow grew larger the more the figure walked towards the street. Sandy stood in the grass like a body frozen in time.  
       The figure stepped across the street at a slow pace. Sandy moved closer to the murky creek waters. The brightness of the Christmas lights mixing with the street lights pronounced the shadow to a larger size. He took a step everytime she took one. Their movements seemed to have unexplained powers. Sandy couldn’t proceed any further. The figure was about ten yards away. Five more yards and she turned around to face the secretive nighthawker. 
       The very psychopath she’d come face-to-face with some months ago stood at least two yards from her. Charlie had never given up on killing her. Sandy was by no means a dummy. She came prepared. She reached into her coat pocket and presented a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum with a black rubber grip. No way would she show up at night in Brush Creek without something to cover her ass. 
       “Well, Charlie, I see we meet once again,” Sandy whistled in her brave, challenging voice. “You thought you’d be the one to take me out. Sorry, my friend, but it looks like you’ll be the one who’ll be checking out tonight.” 
       Charlie hesitated to reach into his pocket. “I slipped up that night we first met, but I won’t slip up this time.” 
       The time couldn’t’ve been grander for Sandy to confront her would’ve been killer. “You killed my precious dog Bolo that night, right down here in Brush Creek. You tried to attack and kill me, but you didn’t know the kinda woman you were fooling with. You didn’t get the job done. You murdered and mutilated those four women like they were useless pieces of garbage.” 
       “You’ll be the fifth piece of useless garbage that I murder and mutilate.” 
       Sandy kept the gun pointed at the center of his chest just in case he made any sudden moves. “Don’t be so sure about that. We went into your apartment and found out everything about you. You don’t have a dick nor a pair of balls to work with. Is that why you killed those nice, innocent women? Huh? Is that why you feel like you don’t have an ounce of manhood left?” 
       Confronting Charlie about his genital mutilation only sent his anger into orbit. “Two of those bitches were useless hookers like yourself. That mutt of your’s, that piece of dog shit, he got what he deserved.” 
       Charlie eased his fingers down into his left coat pocket. 
       “You make one funny move, I’ll empty this .357 into you,” Sandy dared Charlie, holding the gun steady. “How dare you kill innocent women and then chop them up with a machete like they’re rotten portions from a meat packing house. How dare you attack those two police officers who were assigned to look for your ass, right down here in Brush Creek? You had the audacity to kill their canine.” 
       Charlie kept his hand still since Sandy had the firmest grip on the trigger. 
       “You lesbian slut!” Charlie gristled. “Little do you know, I could’ve killed you a long time ago.” 
       “Why didn’t you?” 
       “I believe in saving the best for last.” 
       “No, I out maneuvered your ass. You knew that my partner and the women in S.A.V.E. were watching my back every step of the way. Your little tricks of showing up everywhere I showed up is coming to an end.” 
       “Don’t be so sure about that.” 
       He kept his hand steady, knowing Sandy wouldn’t hesitate to start blasting. 
       “Tell me, Charlie, why’re you so obsessed with a creek filled with wild animals and dirty sewer water?” 
       “Bitch, you wouldn’t understand!” 
       “Why’re you so caught up in something that’s baseless beyond regulating the flow of raw sewage?” 
       “Brush Creek is my life. Brush Creek is not of this world.” 
       “Yeah, yeah, I believe I heard that story the first time. Killing innocent women is a part of your sick fantasies. Betcha didn’t know that I knew that you suffered genital mutilation when heavy artillery blew off your privates over in Vietnam.” 
       Hearing such insulting words only infuriated him to the point of making Sandy his fifth murder victim. Still, she had the upper-hand since she held a powerful .357 in her grip. Charlie knew it was the type of handgun which blew big holes into people’s bodies. 
       “Where’d you get your fucking information from?” 
       “When we went through your apartment, we found out your whole life history. Vietnam wasn’t so kind to you, was it?” 
       “Kinder than homo-lesbo bitches like yourself.” 
       “The two Vietnamese hookers. You wanted to have sex with them, didn’t you?” 
       Sandy had pushed all the right buttons. 
       “Shut your fucking mouth, you whore!” 
       “They laughed at you. They laughed because you didn’t have the tools to satisfy them. They laughed when they saw nothing but thick layers of skin stitched together between your legs.” 
       Thinking about the four women Charlie brutally murdered, and then senselessly mutilated, Sandy felt she had every right to confront him with extreme words of detriment. 
       Charlie shivered with anger. Redness coated his eyes. Blood pumped through his veins at an unhealthy pace. Sandy still waited for him to make any false moves. 
       “Are you making a mockery of me?” 
       “With pleasure.” 
       “Don’t you-----!” 
       “Don’t what? You can’t give pleasure. You can’t receive pleasure. You can’t even bring children into this world. We saw all of your discharge records when we went through your apartment.” 
       By now, Charlie was moments away from exploding. The words Sandy lashed him with were stinging. And who said words could never hurt another individual? His feelings were shredded up like confetti.  
       “Why I let you live the first time, I’ll never ever know.” 
       “Because you ran up on a woman with brains, a woman with street smarts, and a woman with great survival skills. I knew the day would come when we’d meet face-to-face again.” 
       “And this will be the last time we’ll meet again.” 
       “One of us is not going to leave here alive. From the look of things, you’ll be the one who they’ll be carrying away in a bodybag.” 
       “You sure about that?” 
       “More than positive.” 
       Charlie had slipped into a series of flashback episodes. The first episode of actually running into enemy crossfire which severed the genitals away from his body jetstreamed through his mind. The second episode of witnessing a human body being devoured by thousands of hungry maggots sent electrifying jolts through him. The third episode of seeing his fellow soldiers being gunned down by Vietcong casualties felt like a heavyweight boxer punching him right in the gut.      The fourth and most painful episode of being mocked by two Vietnamese hookers rattled his brain and burned through his heart. The haunting sounds of their giggling shot from one ear to the other. Charlie came out of his brief episodes of flashbacks. Sandy hadn’t moved one inch away from him. The .357 was still pointed at the middle of his chest. Her composure never lost its stride.  
       Charlie moved his hand towards the opening of his pocket. 
       “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, mister,” Sandy warned him once again, pressing her finger deeper into the trigger. 
       “Guns don’t scare me.” 
       “Does the pain of a bullet scare you?” 
       “I’ve been shot before.” 
       “I’ll bet the pain is a sonofabitch.” 
       “Depends on where you get hit.” 
       “You try any funny stuff, you’re gonna make a trip down to the morgue at Truman Medical Center.” 
       “TMC, huh?” 
       “That’s right.” 
       “You’d like to see them put me inside a cooler, huh?” 
       “Your choice, Charlie.” 
       “Whaddaya plan on doing?” 
       “Seeing you go where you belong?” 
       “Which is where?” 
       “To the-------.” 
       Before Sandy finished her sentence, Charlie lunged towards her with both hands curled to strangle her. Time at the firing range paid off. She got a shot off in his right shoulder blade. Charlie took off running across the slippery grass. Sandy fired another shot, missing him by just inches. No doubt, she knew where he was headed. 
  CHAPTER—54 
       The phone at the residence of Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet rung at a little past one o’clock a.m. Overstreet’s wife of over thirty years, Irene, rolled over towards the night stand to answer. 
       “Yes?” Irene said, her voice tired and raspy. 
       “Please, may I speak with Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet?” 
       “Who are you?” 
       “My name’s Sandy Barnholtz. I have something to tell the Lieutenant that’s a matter of life and death.” 
       A woman calling their home at one o’clock in the morning? Was it a matter of real business or some bullshit prank going on?  
       Irene turned to her opposite side to hand Overstreet the phone. “Jerry, it’s for you.” 
       “Who is it?” 
       “Some woman named Sandy Barnholtz.” 
       Overstreet took the phone with resentment. Any sleep he got nowadays was priceless sleep. “Yes, what can I do for you, Sandy?” 
       “Charlie tried to attack me down here in Brush Creek!” 
       “Is that where you are now?” 
       “Yes I am, Lieutenant.” 
       “Are you sure it was him?” 
       “I’d swear on the soul of my mother and father.” 
       “Where exactly are you now?” 
       “Near the corner of Chestnut Avenue and Bush Creek Boulevard.” 
       “Stay right there.” 
   
   
   
   
       Overstreet got dressed and showed up fully-equipped to meet Sandy along the corridors of Brush Creek. Carey Schroeder and other detectives followed in his wake. Sandy didn’t want them to think she was some disillusioned nut who played silly games. Police officers from two divisions and S.W.A.T. team members also came equipped with enough artillery. Four canines were summoned to help wage war against the forces of Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli. The good boys of law enforcement knew they were dealing with an extremely dangerous man. Men were posted up at the tunnels which poured raw sewage out on The Country Club Plaza. 
       “When’d you first spot Charlie down here?” Overstreet asked Sandy, aching to take the monster off the streets. 
       “I stood right here in the middle of the grass,” Sandy explained, taking some strong breaths. “I saw the shadow of a man coming my direction, and that’s when I pulled my gun out of my coat pocket.” 
       “Gun? Are you licensed to carry a firearm?” 
       “Lieutenant, I have a carry and conceal certification.” 
       “Okay, that works in your favor. Continue with your story.” 
       “When this person got up close on me, I quickly turned around with my pistol cocked and loaded. Guess who it was? It was Charlie staring right at me with that jacked up mug of his.” 
       “You turn around and it’s Charlie. What happened with you two standing face-to-face?” 
       “Surprisingly, we had a short conversation.” 
       “About what?” 
       “About him killing and mutilating those four women who they found in the trashbags. Charlie is one of the sickest sonofabitches in all of society. Excuse the French, Lieutenant, but Vietnam fucked him up real bad. The man is disturbed.” 
       “Any man would be messed up behind his privates being mutilated. Here’s a good way of looking at it. Imagine a carpenter showing up to a job worksite without his tools. He can’t get the job done without any tools to work with. Charlie wanting to have sex with a woman, and not having any tools to work with, is the exact same principal I’m driving at. You were there when we searched his apartment. This guy is imprisoned by the fact that he is missing the very organs which can create little Charlies. How did your conversation end?” 
       “Charlie lunged towards me. My reflexes led me to fire at him.” 
       “Did you hit him?” 
       “Got’em up by the shoulder blade.” 
       “How many shots did you get off?” 
       “At least two.” 
       “He ran away after that?” 
       “Sure did.” 
       “Which way?” 
       Sandy pointed towards the East end. “Going straight towards the bridge over by Swope Parkway and Brush Creek Boulevard.” 
       “He’s gotta be somewhere near or inside that large tunnel leading towards Satchel Paige Stadium.” 
       “He ran away holding his shoulder blade.” 
       Overstreet formed a huddle around Carey and some of his other detectives. “Guys, Charlie is somewhere inside that big ass tunnel over by Satchel Paige Stadium. Despite all the rats and raw sewage, he’s in there hiding out.” 
       Carey made a strong suggestion. “Jerry, I think we should dispatch a couple’a air units out here. Four canine units ready to go is cool, but we all know we’re not dealing with a normal human being here. This guy’s got a buncha tricks up his sleeves.” 
       “I totally agree with you, Carey. This filthbag is not going down without a fight. Adding a couple’a air units along with canines and S.W.A.T. with a slew of officers wouldn’t hurt matters.” 
       “Considering his tactical military training, he’s got enough expertise to take out a lot of us.” 
       “That’s why we’re gonna need all the resources we can get our hands on.” 
       “There’re several S.W.A.T. guys posted up by those tunnels near the end of The Plaza.” 
       “But we don’t know what he’s got inside that tunnel.” 
       “True.” 
       “We posted up two of the KCPD’s finest, and looked what happened to them and one of our canines.” 
       “True.” 
       “The air unit tried to help capture him that night, but we turned up empty-handed.” 
       “Trust me, we won’t turn up empty-handed this time.” 
       The brave men of law enforcement were ready to make their move on Charlie. For them, the only way he was going to leave the tunnel, was to leave in a bodybag. Police officers had their weapons drawn. Carrying Beretta Model 92 9mm Parabellums and Glock Model 20 10mms were the only way. For the members of the S.W.A.T. team, carrying Ruger Model 44 .44 Magnums and Winchester Model 100 .243 rifles felt real good. 
       Before long, the Air Support Division swept across the clear dark skies with their candlepower searchlight beaming down on the wooded and watery areas of Brush Creek. The four large German Shepard canines were urgent to start their search. The canine officers released the dogs and all four hopped over the sewage waters and raced into the tunnel. The first two had picked up a scent. In the thickness of the dark tunnel, Charlie stood along the tunnel wall holding an M-60 rifle brought back from Vietnam. 
       How in Heaven’s name was he allowed to bring such a powerful weapon back home? One thing’s for sure, when Overstreet and the others searched Charlie’s apartment, they weren’t going to find his M-60. Leaving the machete behind was no big deal. The four canines sniffed closer to their target. The closer they got, their barking got more pronounced. Overstreet, Carey, the police officers, and S.W.A.T. team members, they believed the dogs had found something. 
       The dogs rushed at Charlie with sets of needle sharp teeth. Charlie made things simple for himself. He opened fire on all four German Shepards with the M-60, with only a few full metal jacket rounds killing all four of them. The shots were heard by those near the outside of the tunnel. The cries of the dogs being filled with rounds of ammunition were felt by those who’d sent them in there.  
       Charlie was beyond dangerous. Everyone realized this. Overstreet and Carey were absolutely right, he refused to go down without a fight. Gut instincts told them how all four canines were dead. 
       “Those shots sounded like an M-16 or an M-60,” Overstreet speculated, his service revolver drawn and ready to fire. 
       “The exact weapons used for battle in Vietnam,” Carey added, his weapon also drawn and eager to hit the psychotic target. 
       “Charlie could’ve brought weapons back from Vietnam.” 
       “But, how?” 
       “Soldiers have been known to bring weapons back with them.” 
       “Smuggle them back into the country, huh?” 
       “You’ve got it, Carey.” 
       “Jerry, he popped and killed all four of the canines.” 
       “Had we known he had a weapon, we would’ve had the canine unit hold off on sending the dogs inside the tunnel.” 
       “Dogs just can’t stay alive around that sonofabitch.” 
       The S.W.A.T. members surrounded the side and top of the tunnel with their specialized weapons. Police officers barricaded the opposite end of the tunnel with their pistols gripped firmly in their hands. Everyone carried walkie talkies for communication purposes. All of the S.W.A.T. members had high-powered light beams mounted on top of their rifles.  
       Overstreet and Carey had been given the most powerful flood lights to brighten up even the darkest surroundings. The brave boys of law enforcement had both ends of the tunnel blocked off. The tunnel itself stretched more than three city blocks. Water dripped from the top.  
       Green moss covered the tunnel walls. A small nest of large sewer rats splashed water as they returned to their inner sanctum. 
       “Look at the size of those things, will ya,” Carey brought to Overstreet’s attention.  
       None of them took chances. The rats made sounds which caused them to point their weapons in their direction. 
       “Guess all this sewage and trash has been good to them,” Overstreet said, proceeding further into the tunnel with caution. 
       “One of those things lunge towards me, I’m shooting it.” 
       “Don’t blame ya.” 
       Overstreet and Carey and the S.W.A.T team moved further into the tunnel from the north end. Police officers and other detectives eased their way in from the south end. Still, there were no signs of Charlie.  
       “What the fuck he do, Jerry, disappear into thin air?” Carey asked. 
       “No way, Carey, that sonofabitch is in this tunnel somewhere,” Overstreet said. 
       “Are you, are we, are all of us sure he didn’t sneak out of here?” 
       “Look for the psychotic bastard with sharp eyes.” 
       “You’re right.” 
       With the collaboration of all the lights, the tunnel lit up like a Hollywood movie set. More rats ran to and from holes dug by them leading to the outside. Like two strings being tied together from opposite ends, both parties approached each other at a cautionary pace. They bounced the beaming lights all around the tunnel. Where in the hell was Charles Rastelli? 
       “Jerry, are you sure that asswipe didn’t leave this tunnel?” Carey whispered to Overstreet, nursing the trigger of his weapon. 
       “Not unless he’s the world’s greatest magician.” 
       “This tunnel is starting to creep me out.” 
       “Keep your ears and eyes open.” 
       “Didn’t Sandy hit him with a round from her pistol?” 
       “She did.” 
       “There’s no blood nowhere around.” 
       Everyone were only a few yards away from meeting up. Was Charlie good enough to avoid detection? The answer was yes. Buried under thick mud, sewage, rocks, and tree debris was Charlie. Overstreet and Carey put the floodlights right down on the four slain canines. The coats of the German Shepards were punctured with angry rounds of ammunition. Right when the parties met up, Charlie sprung up out of the layers of debris which camouflaged him so well.  
       “Jerry, look out!” Carey warned his superior. 
       Charlie discharged a series of rounds from the M-60. Full metal jackets went flying all around the tunnel. The opposition returned fire. Their aims were accurate enough to keep from hitting one another. One of the S.W.A.T. members took a round to the lower leg, while another one took one to the upper thigh. Wisely, everyone wore bullet proof vests. 
       “War has no beginning, and it has no ending!” Charlie shouted from his pair of weakening lungs. 
       Literally, he shot his way out of the tunnel. This time, no one got hit by his ammunition. Overstreet and Carey returned fire as they watched Charlie dash out of the tunnel and towards Satchel Paige Stadium. One of the Air Support Divisions spotted him directly on sight. 
       “Can you respond?” asked the operator of the chopper. 
       “Go ahead,” Overstreet approved, talking eagerly into the walkie talkie.  
       He pointed his weapon with hopes of emptying a slug or two into the psycho. The sonofabitch caused them more anguish than they’d anticipated. 
       “Subject is running through the woods behind the Deerpark Apartments.” 
       “Is the rifle still in his hands?” 
       “Yes it is.” 
       “Keep the light on him. We’re only a few yards away.” 
       “Ten-four.” 
       Overstreet and Carey and others raced through the short length of woods behind Deerpark Apartments. Deers and raccoons and possums were disturbed and emptied out of their inner sanctums. Neighbors from nearby streets were awaken. Chasing after Charlie was a gala spectacle. If they wanted entertainment, they got an overdose of it.  
       “Can you respond?” Overstreet inquired to the operator of the OH-58C Aircraft. 
       “Yes, I’m clear.” 
       “Where is the subject now?” 
       “Heading straight for one of the tunnels in the middle of the woods.” 
       “Keep your light shining down at the beginning of the tunnel.” 
       “Ten-four.” 
       All parties spotted Charlie squeezing his body into the dark tunnel. Overstreet and Carey and the others did their homework. They’d been briefed on the ins and outs of the hole he crawled into. There was only one way in and one way out. The other airborne officer swept across the sky and right over to the opposite end of the tunnel on The Country Club Plaza. Both choppers were positioned at the openings. No way was the KCPD going to bring out anymore canine units. Hell, Charlie majored in killing them.  
       Overstreet and Carey pushed the floodlights into the beginning of the tunnel and saw nothing but wet concrete. The pair of detectives might’ve underestimated Charlie. 
       “This shellshocked shithead getting away from us shouldn’t come as a surprise,” Carey explained to Overstreet. 
       “Spending time maneuvering his way through jungles only got him ready for this kinda cat-n-mouse game.” 
       “Vietnam prepared him for this.” 
       “Which is like child’s play to him.” 
       “Charlie crawled through trenches and holes in Vietnam. Why couldn’t he crawl through tunnels filled with sewage and rats?” 
       “Remember when we searched his apartment? Remember when we saw all those posters and maps of Brush Creek? This demonic dickhead spent most of his life casing out this creek. He knows this place better than the people who built it.” 
       “Yeah, a lifetime of coming down here will make you an expert.” 
       “An obsessed sicko are a better choice of words.” 
       “Halfway through, I’ll bet he’s at that point.” 
       “This tunnel stretches for at least a couple’a miles.” 
       “Or more.” 
       “To your knowledge, are there any connecting tunnels?” 
       “Not that I’m aware of.” 
       “Either we catch this maniac tonight, or more bodies are gonna turn up down here in Brush Creek. In all my years of doing detective work, I’ve never dealt with a sonofabitch who headached my head like him.” 
       “My service with the KCPD, Jerry, doesn’t compare to your’s. Dealing with Charlie has turned into our worse nightmare. How’re we gonna get him the hell out of this tunnel?” 
       “Only one way I can think of.” 
       “Which is?” 
       Overstreet turned his attention towards Captain Marshall Faron, the leader of the well-trained S.W.A.T. team. “Captain, where do we go from here?” 
       “Well, Lieutenant, the only alternative I can think of is to try and gas him out of there.” 
       “You think tear gas might cause him to surrender?” 
       “We all know what happens to canines when they cross paths with his bastard. Tear gas is our last resort.” 
       “Alright, let’s go with that plan.” 
       Captain Faron dispatched the other S.W.A.T. members over in The Plaza vicinity. They were ordered to simultaneously fire tear gas canisters with propellers into the tunnel from their end. The captain placed his weapon a few inches inside the tunnel and fired a high velocity tear gas projectile into a patch of darkness. Each canister contained 130 grams of powerful gas and exploded upon impact. The once dark and wet tunnel became clouded with smoke. The large sewer rats were heard screeching and squealing.  
       Clearing them out might’ve done the city a favor. Captain Faron and the others weren’t satisfied. He fired another canister inside the tunnel, ordering his men from the other end to do the same. The propellers accelerated the canisters many yards. Would the gas force Charlie out of the tunnel? Overstreet believed Charlie could’ve been trained to evade the damaging effects of the gas. He waited along with the others to see if their prey would finally surrender. Minutes had passed and nothing happened. 
       “Hey Cap, you think the gas reached him?” Overstreet questioned Captain Faron, growing more impatient by the minute. 
       “Can’t tell right now. We don’t know how far the gas traveled into the tunnel.” 
       “Doesn’t it spread once it hits the surface?” 
       “It does.” 
       “Charlie was trained in Vietnam to deal with all kinds of gases, both poisonous and non-poisonous.” 
       “But not without a gas mask.” 
       “Though the tunnel’s a mile and some change, is it possible it’ll spread from one end to the next?” 
       “With myself and my men firing from both ends, I’d say that it’s very possible. We’ve fired on crowds stretching for many city blocks, and the gas was able to disperse people for over a mile radius.” 
       “Right now, we can only hope for the best.” 
       Deep within the dark confines of the Brush Creek tunnel, Charlie was determined to not surrender. Overstreet and the others were correct. He wasn’t going down without a fight. Gases and chemical pesticides were no match for him in Vietnam. The true test for Charlie came at the most inopportune time. From the mid-point of the smoky tunnel, he felt burning sensations all over his face and arms. The concentration of the gas forced an uncontrollable shutting of his eyes. 
       Overstreet was given a modernized bullhorn to voice his opinions and concerns. He yelled straight into the tunnel. “Charlie, if you’re still in there, why don’t you just give yourself up!” 
       Seconds past and there was no response. 
       “Charlie, this is Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet with the KCPD,” Overstreet announced to the wanted suspect. “You’re surrounded and there’s nowhere to go. Just give it up, Charlie.” 
       More seconds passed. No response came from inside the tunnel. 
       “Let’s make this easy on all of us. Come out of there so we can compromise like civilized people.” 
       A crackled, angry voice echoed off the concrete corridors of the tunnel. “War has no fucking beginning, and it has no fucking ending!”  
       This indicated Charlie was very much alive. Police officers, detectives, and S.W.A.T. members had their weapons positioned to fire away.  
       “Charlie, don’t try and do nothing stupid. Both openings of these tunnels are surrounded with the best in law enforcement. Surrender now and you might live.” 
       The muzzled voice of Charlie fired back. “Whether I give myself up, or whether I shoot it out with you guys, either way, I’m a dead man.” 
       Given his choice, Overstreet would’ve rather taken him alive. “That’s not true. We have no intentions of killing you, not unless you wanna go out forcefully.” 
       “You goddamned liar!” 
       “No, it’s the truth, Charlie.” 
       “I was born in the daytime, sir, not born on yesterday.” 
       “You’ve got no other choice, Charlie.” 
       Things got quiet for a minute or so. The tear gas took on a greater effect. Charlie coughed and coughed until mucous thick enough to plaster up a billboard shot out of his mouth and nostrils. The lining of his nose and throat felt like a flaming torch. His body took on a sense of disorientation. Extreme dizziness were seen through his eyes.  
       Worst of all, he experienced restricted breathing. 
       “Charlie, you’ll die inside this tunnel. Come on out of there.” 
       Charlie placed the M-60 down on the wet floor of the tunnel. Using slow body movement, he crawled in the direction of Swope Parkway and Brush Creek Boulevard. Twenty minutes was enough time for him to crawl towards the opening of the tunnel. He sluggishly fell into a big puddle full of sewage water. Weapons of different sizes were drawn on him. A stoned, flushed face and bloody red eyes were the exterior effects of the gas. Overstreet and Carey bent down to take a strong look at the man they’d wanted to apprehend many months ago.  
       Sandy and Carol stood on the opposite side looking down on the sicko who’d caused them a mound of anguish. Members of S.A.V.E. were by their side to share in the victory. Their fear of being his next victim was finally over. Those from the media were held off until Overstreet was satisfied with processing the crime scene. The S.W.A.T. team kept their rifles drawn on Charlie as though he had enough strength to take on an army. 
       Charlie was only minutes away from his death. Calling an emergency medical crew would’ve done no good. A heaving chest and clusters of saliva bubbles indicated he drew closer to dying.  
       Before checking out, he had some final words. “I’m going to die a happy man. And do you know why I’m going to die a happy man?” 
       “Why?” Overstreet asked, watching a totally disturbed man about to die before his very eyes. 
       “My final resting place is going to be down here in Brush Creek. You didn’t know, but I had it planned this way all this time.” 
       “Charlie, can I ask you something before you leave us?” 
       “Ask me anything.” 
       “What is your real obsession with Brush Creek?” 
       Charlie’s heaving intensified. “Brush Creek is paradise here on Earth. Like The Garden of Eden in The Bible was Adam and Eve’s paradise, Brush Creek was always my Earthly paradise.” 
       “But why? This place is nothing but woods and concrete and wildlife and raw sewage water.” 
       “Those are the beauty of it all.” 
       Overstreet watched Charlie draw closer to taking his last breath. “But why did you kill all four of the women that you did?” 
       “Women, they’re the real enemies. They’ve made mockeries of us men.” 
       Charlie heaved stronger and stronger until he spoke his last three words. “Goodbye, Brush Creek.” 
       Sandy Barnholtz crossed herself as she watched workers from the morgue take away the body of Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli. 
   
   
   Publication Date: June 4th 2011 https://www.bookrix.com/-bestsellerdewey