The Chase

Curtis stood in front of the large map of the western United States and thoughtfully studied the little flags signifying the killer’s spree. There were sixteen of them. “Got any intuition on the Butcher Bandit?”

Bell looked at him. “Butcher Bandit? Is that what they’re calling him?”

“A reporter from the Bisbee Bugle came up with it. Other newspapers have picked it up and spread the term across the territory.”

“It won’t help our cause,” said Bell. “With that name on everyone’s lips, the law-abiding citizens will come down hard on the Van Dorn Detective Agency for not apprehending him.”

“That’s already started,” Curtis said, laying the Rocky Mountain News on the table in front of Bell. He stared down at it.

The lead column was on the robbery and murders in Rhyolite. Half the column was devoted to the question “Why haven’t law enforcement agencies made any progress in the case and captured the Butcher Bandit?”

“The heat is on,” Bell said simply.

“The heat is on us,” Irvine added.

“So what have we got?” asked Bell, pointing to a stack of files two feet high on the bank crimes piled on the desk in front of him. “I’ve studied the reports while coming west on the train. It appears that all we have is that we’re not dealing with the typical cowboy turned bank robber.”

“He works alone,” said Curtis, “and he’s devilish clever and evil. But what is most frustrating is that he never leaves a trail for a posse to follow.”

Irvine nodded his head in agreement. “It’s as though he disappears into the hell he came from before he leaves town.”

“No tracks are ever found leading into the surrounding countryside?” asked Bell.

Curtis shook his head. “The best trackers in the business have come up dry every time.”

“Any evidence he might have holed up in town until the excitement died down?”

“None that’s ever turned up,” replied Curtis. “After the robberies, he was never seen again.”

“A ghost,” murmured Irvine. “We’re dealing with a ghost.”

Bell smiled. “No, he’s human, but a damned smart human.” He paused and fa

“He’s either a gambler or a risk taker,” said Curtis.

“Wrong on both counts,” Bell corrected him. “Our man is bold and he’s shrewd. We can assume he does his dirty work using disguises, since the people of all the towns he’s struck never agree on the appearance of suspicious-looking strangers.”

Irvine began pacing the conference room, occasionally examining a flag pi

Curtis looked at the carpeted floor and shrugged. “How odd there are no witnesses who can give a credible identification.”

“Nothing odd about it,” said Irvine. “He murders them all. The dead can’t speak.”

Bell seemed to ignore the conversation as if he was lost in thought. Then his eyes focused on the map and he said slowly, “The big question in my mind is why he always kills everyone in the bank during the theft. Even women and children. What does he gain by the slaughter? It can’t be that he simply doesn’t want to leave witnesses to the robberies, not when he’s already been seen around town in disguise…unless…” He paused. “There is a new definition created by psychologists for murderers who kill as easily as they brush their teeth. They call them sociopaths. Our man can kill without remorse. He has no emotions, does not know how to laugh or love, and has a heart that is as cold as an iceberg. To him, shooting down a small child holds the same sensitivity as shooting a pigeon.”

“Hard to believe there are people that cruel and ruthless,” muttered Irvine in revulsion.

“Many of the bandits and gunfighters of the past were sociopaths,” said Bell. “They shot other men as easily as if they sneezed. John Wesley Hardin, the famous Texas badman, once shot and killed a man for snoring.”

Curtis looked steadily at Bell. “Do you really think he murders everyone in a bank because he enjoys it?”

“I do,” Bell said quietly. “The bandit gets a weird satisfaction from committing his blood crimes. Another peculiar factor. He makes his escape before the people of the town, including the town sheriff, realized what happened.”

“So where does that leave us?” asked Irvine. “What avenues do we search?”

Bell looked at him. “Another of his routine habits is to ignore any gold and take only currency. Gle

“Banks in mining towns aren’t in the habit of recording the identifying number of every bill that passes through their hands.”

“You might get lucky and find a bank that recorded the numbers of the currency sent from large city banks to make the miners’ payroll. If you do, we can trace them. The robber had to either spend the money or exchange the currency through bank deposits and withdrawals. A trail he can’t cover up.”

“He could have exchanged through foreign financial institutions.”

“Maybe, but he would have to spend it overseas. The risk would be too great for him to bring it back into the U.S. I’m betting he kept his loot in the country.”

Then Bell turned to Curtis. “Art, you check out all stagecoach and train schedules for any that departed the towns on the same day the robberies took place. If our man couldn’t be tracked by a posse, he might easily have taken a train or stage for his getaway. You can begin in Placerville, California.”

“Consider it done,” said Curtis firmly.

“Are you going to remain here and act as a command post?” asked Irvine.

Bell shook his head and gri

“You’ll give us your schedule so we can get in touch by telegraph if we come onto something?” said Curtis.

“I’ll have it for you tomorrow,” replied Bell. “I’m also going to travel through the mining towns that have large payrolls our man has yet to rob. Maybe, just maybe I can second-guess our butcher, set up a trap, and entice him to strike another bank on our turf.” Then he pulled open a drawer and passed out two envelopes. “Here’s enough cash to cover your travel expenses.”