The Front Range Butcher Read online

  When the game was over we headed towards Bill’s vehicle to wait for Ray, who was being interviewed by the team radio station after changing.

  “After a game like that, it will be hard to control myself,” I said to April. “Your wish is my command. What will it be for dinner? American, Italian, Greek, Chinese or Mexican?”

  “Surprise me,” she said. “Then on the drive home from the restaurant maybe I’ll surprise you.”

  With a grin, imagining what type of surprise she had in mind for me, I pulled out my cell phone and happily made reservations.

  Chapter 5

  Among all the information Jonas had given me, was the name of a serial killer profiler he had worked with on the original case. Doris Zahn was now in her late fifties, but still in the business. I had contacted her, and she agreed to meet me this Sunday at the Botanic Gardens once she was done at church. It seemed like an odd place to meet, but I agreed, arriving and entering just before 11 a.m.

  The Gardens have trails leading in various directions, a horticulturist’s wet dream all around you. Nearly any plant you can think of in full view, the varieties changing depending on the time of year. Since it was the middle of September, many of the plants seasons were ending. But still there was plenty of colors to view; red, purples, pink, yellow and, of course, many shades of green. I followed the map, to the far west side, to find the Water Garden Gazebo where she wanted to meet. I passed many families enjoying the warm late summer weather, in shorts and seasonal dresses, the children running and pointing when seeing plants or insects that got their attention. I had to say it was a quiet and peaceful place, full of life and color—a nice contrast to the dark conversation that we were about to have.

  As I approached the gazebo, I saw an older woman sitting on a yellow bench next to a large light blue pot, reading a book. She was dressed in a flowered red and yellow dress, sandals on her feet, with a sun hat and large round sunglasses to protect her from the rays. Her brown and gray hair draped across her shoulders. Once she noticed me she smiled and stood and put out her hand.

  “You must be Jarvis,” she said in a soft voice. “I’m Doris. Nice to meet you.”

  I took her hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Doris.”

  She sat back down, and I took a spot next to her. I really wasn’t sure what to expect, but for her line of work, I was surprised by what I saw.

  “I love the gardens,” she said. “I’m a member and come here three or four times a month. I find it calming walking the trails, especially after going to church and joining with the Lord. Helps put me at peace.”

  “It is beautiful,” I replied. “I must say I’ve not visited here often. I may have to make it a more regular recreational stop in my life to walk off the stress.”

  “With all the horror in the world, it’s nice to see things come to life, grow and die as nature intended them to. Man likes to step in and muck up things and can’t let it be, if I may borrow from The Beatles.”

  Hard to argue with her logic. Everyone needs a place to unwind in trying times.

  “Church, a walk in the gardens and now we talk of serial killers,” I said.

  She smiled. “A contradiction for sure. But it is the skill God gave me. Hopefully I use it for good and can occasionally stop someone from horribly murdering an innocent.”

  “Jonas speaks highly of you.”

  “Jonas is a wonderful person, with a wonderful family. He has been blessed.” You could see, by the look in her eyes, that she respected him beyond the words.

  “Have you been blessed?”

  “I have. Though there have been demons at my door many times. But God, and the love of my life, have been there to save me. Both are always near, walking with me in spirit.”

  “Your loved one passed away?” I asked gently.

  “Yes. Six years ago leukemia took his body, but not his soul.” She put her hand over her heart. “It is with me always.”

  I had felt personal loss in my life, too. “I’m sorry. Never easy losing a loved one.”

  She nodded.

  “It would seem your line of work would be demanding,” I stated. “Even…how should I put it…soul-sucking to get into the minds of these murderers.”

  There was no hesitation to answer. “Yes, it can be. That is why I go to church to find salvation. The gardens allow me to read and meditate to find peace. I refuse to let the bastards win, if you’ll pardon my language.”

  I smiled at her words. I’ve often had to find salvation myself, though in more diverse ways.

  “Down to business,” I said, looking around before saying the phrase most have heard of and feared. “The Front Range Butcher?”

  “One case we never solved,” Doris said, shaking her head in sorrow. “It saddens me that we didn’t catch him.”

  “A lot of death. Jonas was certain it was Simon Lions. How about you?”

  She closed her book, pulling the sash through to mark her spot. I noticed it was the King James Bible she had been reading. I wondered if there was a commandment that dealt with gruesome murderers.

  “It was not my job to judge,” she said. “Only to learn how they ticked. What made them who they are. But he did fit the profile I created, from what I could gather about him.”

  “Which was?”

  “Egotistical. Maniacal. Abusive and likely had been abused. Talking with him was like talking with a God-like personality. He felt as if he could do no wrong and was above everyone else. But with woman, he was sheltered, almost child-like. Wanting to be loved by them, but never quite achieving satisfaction when with them.”

  “Is that personal or physical satisfaction he couldn’t achieve?” I pulled out a pad and paper and started jotting down what she was telling me. I found it fascinating listening to her way of describing the suspect and killer.

  “Both. I don’t think, if you again pardon the language, he could get it up with woman. At least not in a more conventional, loving, sexual way. Only through control and violence did he achieve erection and ejaculation.”

  “Which was the profile of The Front Range Butcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then carving up his victims was his sexual act?”

  Her hand began rubbing the bible, as if finding strength before speaking.

  “Actually, the scalpel was an extension of his manhood. He got off on it. It was his release that built up over time.” She stopped for a minute, rubbing a few more times before continuing. “Victims every three to four weeks. No physical sexual assault from what we knew. But he may have experienced release many times while torturing these poor women. Then time needed to recharge and stalk his next victim.”

  Looking out upon the Monet Pool nearby, I could see several ducks swimming, diving down and resurfacing again, enjoying themselves in the warm water. They didn’t care about the serial killer on the loose.

  “What about the two male victims?”

  “Not sure. It was believed they may have come upon him, possibly during his stalking, killing them to keep from being exposed. It was all we could fathom, since those murders didn’t fit the others.”

  “Retribution.”

  “Indeed. Anyone getting close could be a threat.”

  Might have been why there were few witnesses, I surmised.

  “Jonas mentioned he was threatened. What about you?”

  She waited to answer, looking at the flowers all around us, her hand now resting still.

  “My husband received a phone call. Voice was disguised and the number blocked. Said he’d come and get me. We hired protection for a few months. It wasn’t long after the murders stopped.”

  “Why did he stop killing?” I asked.

  An orange and black butterfly landed on her shoulder, the bright colors of her dress attracting like a flower. She watched it with joy, before it flew off.

  “Hard to say for certain. But he may have found something to take the place of the violence. To fill that void.”

  “Is that a n
ormal occurrence?” I was picking her brain, learning all I could.

  “Not really. Most serial killers are caught or killed, which ends the violence. If he was killed, we don’t know about it. My feeling is, he found something or someone to bring an end to his ways. We may never know.”

  “What do you make of it starting again? Could it be the same person or someone emulating him?” I continued to write down key points she was making.

  “When I first heard about it, I was shocked. The pattern is too similar to be a copycat. There were facts kept from the public. And these two new murders are so exact, it would almost have to be the same person.”

  Her demeanor was quite calm. I wondered if her idea of shocked was the same as mine.

  “Yet if it was Simon, it would seem it couldn’t be him for his physical limitations, with having a stroke and all. Could he be faking it?”

  She paused, pondering the question. It was one I had to ask, even if she didn’t have a concrete answer.

  “A stroke is hard to fake. Still if he recovered from the stroke, and was masking it, then it could be possible. Yet he is bedridden or in a wheelchair, and under pretty much constant care. I can see no way he could be out and about taking the time needed to commit these murders. But he could have an apprentice.”

  “Seems like a weird job to train for.”

  “All we know for certain, is that the killer is back in some form. The devil walks among us, though we may never recognize him since he doesn’t have pointed ears, a tail and a pitchfork. His guise can be of a common man, with common features. A neighbor next door as normal as anyone, a person no one ever suspects.”

  “How do we catch him?” It was the question no one had found an answer for.

  With her hand on the Bible, she said, “I truly don’t know. At this point our prayers haven’t been answered.”

  It did not comfort me to hear her words.

  Chapter 6

  Being an ace detective, I used all my cunning skills to track down the PI the Rocky Mountain News had hired all those years ago. After thinking it over for a couple of minutes, I went to my computer and typed “Paul Waters Private Detective Colorado” and his name came right up, along with his website. It wasn’t anything too fancy, but still it was more than I had. The next stroke of genius was to dial his phone number listed in the contact info, where I left a detailed message. I heard back in about an hour and was now on my way to meet him.

  He was living in Longmont Colorado these days, a northern suburb of Denver, though many years ago, no one would have ever claimed that. But with the growth in the area, most of these small towns were no longer small, and had pretty much grown into each other. Longmont was part of Boulder County, and now, was literally a neighbor of the city of Boulder. What was once farm land, had now become thriving housing communities with stretches of retail and office establishments. Paul wanted to meet at Thompson Park, which is where I pointed my GPS.

  Riding the Harley, I made it there in about forty-five minutes, and found a parking spot. The park was several acres in size, with lots of trees, grass, picnic tables and a couple of shelters. I sent a text message and stood, waiting for about ten minutes listening to two birds chirping a happy song back and forth, before a man walked up to me. He was about my height of six foot, though heavier and older. He had a full head of gray curly hair, with sideburns and a bushy mustache. He was dressed in jeans and a plain yellow t-shirt. He was carrying a camera with a large zoom lens, acting like he was taking pictures of the trees and birds. In reality, he was taking pictures of a couple having a picnic lunch on the grass.

  “Jarvis Mann,” he said softly, without offering his hand. “You wanted to talk?”

  “Yes, regarding an old case you worked on,” I said, getting straight to the point. “I am hoping you will remember as it was many years ago. The Front Range Butcher.”

  He held the camera up, pointing into the trees, taking a couple of photos. Then quickly changed the direction, taking two quick shots of the couple, the female lying on top of the man. If he had a reaction to the serial killer name, he didn’t show it.

  “Long time ago. Don’t remember much about it,” he said simply. His tone was wary and I could tell that he was uncomfortable talking about the subject, so I offered a little more encouragement.

  “You were hired by the Rocky Mountain News?”

  He glanced at me sideways, the camera still aimed, a couple more shots taken. I crossed my arms, to let him know I could wait for an answer. He lowered the camera and finally gave me some details.

  “Persons high up at the paper, called looking for me to surveil someone. Wanting detailed daily reports on their whereabouts, if I recall correctly.”

  “Simon Lions?”

  He gave a short nod. “Sounds about right. My memory is a little foggy on the facts.”

  “How long did you follow him?”

  “Who the hell knows? Didn’t you hear me that I was foggy on the facts?”

  “What about files on the case. Can I see those?” I asked hoping that there was something I could gain from this meeting.

  The camera was raised again, as he took a couple more snapshots, moving to change his position. The woman still was on top, the man now grabbing her rear end.

  “They are gone. They were lost when I moved shortly afterwards.”

  A convenient answer I wasn’t sure I believed.

  “Where were you located before?”

  “Denver. I moved on to somewhere quieter.”

  “Here in Longmont?” I was surprised. My drive on the streets of the city didn’t seem all that quiet.

  “Yes. I’ve been here ever since. Best career move at the time.”

  “Didn’t like Denver?”

  “Denver was great, but dangerous. Up here is much nicer. Still plenty of work to do.”

  As we walked, a teenager in baggy pants and shirt, came rolling by on his skateboard, nearly knocking me down. If he saw me he never indicted as much, as he rolled on by as if he owned the pathway, ignoring my evil stare.

  “You like taking pictures of a cheating spouse?” I said, trying to forget the skateboarder.

  “Horny, unfaithful people are everywhere,” he replied, while taking a couple more shots. “Don’t need the big city dangers to make a living.”

  “Most of your business now is catching people with their pants down?” I smirked.

  “Enough of it is. And sometimes like today, the pants stay on. Shots of two people dry humping is good enough to close the case and cash the check.”

  A lot of detective work was just what he was doing. I hated it, but still did it from time to time to pay the bills. But it appears he relished it. I would have been out of the profession in a flash if this was the only way to keep the business afloat.

  “Not sure how you can stand this type of work.”

  He looked at me sideways while we walked, as if I was nuts.

  “I’m almost sixty. I don’t care to take on any major cases that may or may not lead me to get my ass kicked. This work suits me fine, up until retirement that is.”

  “What scared you off The Front Range Butcher case?” I added, hoping to catch him off guard.

  He lowered the camera, with an angry stare my way. “Why do you think I was scared off?”

  “I read Jonas’ file. He said you just up and quit one day. I have a feeling someone got to you. Either with money, threats or both.”

  “I’m not sure what I should be offended of more, that I’m a coward and have no scruples or that I could be bribed.” His anger was increasing.

  “Neither one would make for enjoyable reading on a mission statement,” I said in a weak attempt at humor.

  After two more pictures, he let the camera hang from his neck, turned and started walking back to where he came from. It looked as if he was done talking.

  “Waters, I figure you found evidence, maybe even discovered something, or was close to it, and then someone came along and told you to
stop digging or else. Does that sound about right?”

  He kept on walking, trying to ignore me. I hustled to get in front of him, blocking his path, bringing us eye to eye. I could feel the anger or maybe it was shame, from the heat coming from his red face. And it wasn’t sunburn.

  “There is nothing wrong with being scared shitless, and packing it in. I’ve been there myself.” I offered as a peace token.

  After thinking over my words, his head slumped down, as if in shame. It appeared as though he was trying to decide what to tell me.

  “I won’t tell a soul, your reputation is safe with me,” I said, reading his mind.

  Finally, he sighed. “You are right, I was paid a visit. Some big hot shot lawyer came by my place and said to stop following his client or they would have my license pulled. Threw around a few local politicians’ names who were big at the time just to get his point across.”

  “And that is when you quit?”

  “Hell no! I’ve had people threaten that type of crap before. I basically laughed at him.” His tone changed from defiance to fear. “A few days later, another guy turned up, not a lawyer though, a thug. Said they had picked up my daughter and were taking her for a ride. If I didn’t agree to stop right then and there, they were going to hurt her in ways a father would never want his daughter hurt. Do you understand now why I can’t talk to you?”

  I was not a father but could relate having put those I’d cared for in jeopardy before. Quitting had never been in my nature, but it had crossed my mind when the darkness crept in. I nodded gravely, letting him know I understood.

  “That is when you walked away?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “I did, and they let her go unharmed. It was my baby girl. A senior in high school, about to go to college. I gave it up, destroyed everything I gathered, told the Rocky Mountain News I didn’t find anything and would have to put my effort into other, more fruitful cases. A year later we moved up here, to be closer to my daughter who was going to CSU.” The tiniest hint of emotion cracked in his voice.