KPD, TBI SEEK SERIAL KILLER
The body of a Knoxville prostitute was discovered in a wooded area in eastern Knox County near Interstate 40 yesterday, and the murder is the work of a serial killer, say two law-enforcement sources. The Knoxville Police Department, Knox County Sheriff’s Office, Campbell County Sheriff’s Office, and Tennessee Bureau of Investigation are seeking the killer, who is considered responsible for the deaths of at least two women, both believed to be prostitutes—one from Knoxville and one from Campbell County. The murders are “definitely the work of the same killer,” according to one investigator, speaking off the record. Neither victim’s name has been released, pending notification of family members.
Officially, both the KPD and the TBI remain tight-lipped, refusing to confirm or deny that the murders are the work of a serial killer. “We investigate every possible lead in every murder,” said KPD spokesman Warren Fountain. “Any time we have multiple unsolved homicides, we consider the possibility that they might be linked. That’s standard procedure for every law-enforcement agency.” But a second source told the News Sentinel that an FBI “profiler”—an agent specializing in serial killers—is consulting with Tennessee authorities to help catch the murderer. The FBI would not comment on its role in the investigations.
My, my, Satterfield thought. Calling in the cavalry. He took it as a compliment. He stopped reading long enough to look at the photo. It showed four uniformed policemen carrying a stretcher out of the Cahaba Lane woods, threading between the I beams that supported the COMFORT INN billboard. On the stretcher was a misshapen lump, which the photo caption identified as “a body bag containing the mutilated corpse of a murdered Knoxville prostitute.” He was disappointed that the body was covered, though of course he’d seen the woman—he’d had sex with the woman—before she died. Afterward, too.
Satterfield resumed reading the story.
Also consulting with KPD and TBI investigators is Dr. Bill Brockton, a forensic anthropologist at the University of Tennessee. “My role is to try to figure out how and when she was killed,” said Brockton. Brockton voiced confidence that the killer would be caught soon. “Luckily, most criminals aren’t very smart. In fact, most of them are just plain dumb. This guy has already made some careless, foolish mistakes. I feel sure he’ll be caught soon.”
Satterfield stared at the page, wishing the heat of his focused fury could cause the paper to burst into flames. He stared again at the photo. In the background, trailing the policemen with the stretcher, was a now-familiar, very loathsome face: Brockton’s.
An X-Acto knife rested on the kitchen table, to one side of the newspaper, and Satterfield reached for it. Gripping its precisely knurled aluminum handle with the tips of his left thumb and first two fingers, he jabbed the needle-sharp tip of the blade into the newspaper photograph twice—first into Brockton’s left eye, then into the right eye. Then, and only then, did he slit the article from the page and slide it into a clear plastic sleeve, the kind with the reinforced strip along one edge and three holes punched in it, so it could be clipped into a three-ring binder. Clipped into Satterfield’s binder.
He walked into the den, to the big shelving unit that held the television, VCR, and stereo. Just above the wire-mesh terrarium where the snake lay—the thick body draped heavily over a piece of driftwood and a couple of the sandstone slabs—was a bookshelf. As Satterfield reached across the top of the enclosure, the ribbon of tongue slid from the snake’s mouth and flicked, licking molecules of Satterfield from the air—exhalations from his lungs; skin cells sloughing from his scalp and his arms, perhaps even from the scab in his palm; perhaps the snake was tasting the tattoo of its own head and tongue. Satterfield rubbed his palms together, to send a shower of cells wafting down upon the snake, then reached for two volumes from the bookshelf.
Back at the table, he opened the first volume—The University of Tennessee Faculty and Staff Directory—and turned to the dog-eared page where Brockton’s name was highlighted in yellow. Uncapping a pink marker, Satterfield now highlighted another name, the name directly above Brockton’s: Brockton, Kathleen; Nutrition Science. Next, he opened the second volume—the Knoxville telephone directory—and located the family’s phone number and address.