Brush Creek Charlie, D. B. Reynolds [top non fiction books of all time TXT] 📗

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