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

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.