Kansas City's had its share of notorious serial killers. Terry Blair killed at least seven women in the KC metro area. There's good ol' Robert J. Gross, who'd been happily stalking and killing massage parlor workers for decades, before finally being caught. How about Lorenzo Gilyard, a trash company supervisor, who was suspected of killing 13 women, colorfully known as The Kansas City Strangler? I guess working trash must've been stressful. Casting the net further, of course, Kansas gave birth to the BTK Strangler. You're welcome! Oh, and the Westboro Baptist Church.
But perhaps the killer with the most notoriety was Bob Berdella, aka The Kansas City Butcher, aka The Collector. Or at least he scared me the most. For I had several near encounters with him, my version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, I suppose.
For those who don't know, the short story is Bob was actually a relatively well-known Kansas City fixture, hiding in plain sight. Many knew him as a civic-minded citizen, who helped to form the Hyde Park Neighborhood Crime and Watch Program. Long out of the closet, he took in young male hustlers and attempted to get them off of drugs. Soon he started capturing, torturing (for up to six weeks!), and killing young gay men, disposing of them in handy-sized chunks in trash bags at the landfill. All of this took place at his home at 4315 Charlotte Street.
Now, at the same time, one of my closest friends lived directly one block over at 4315 Harrison Street. It was ideal for our group of pals, as A) he was the only one with a house at the time and we could all crash there (it had, like, four floors and endless rooms!); and B) it was within walking distance of our favorite nightlife area, Westport.
Many wee hours were spent stumbling home from the bars to the house on Harrison while Bob was busy directly behind us pouring Drano down a poor hapless victim's throat. Even scarier was another friend, who was particularly directionally-challenged after drinking, spent the night mistakenly on Bob's front porch! Lucky for him, Bob must've slept through his intrusion, otherwise he would've seen it as a Christmas miracle, no doubt.
But you know, in our stupid and immature youthful naivety and false feelings of invulnerability, we never worried about the crime-ridden neighborhood, let alone ending up as shish-ka-Bob-Berdellaed!
Speaking of Westport, Bob ran a booth down there called "Bob's Bizarre Bazaar." The little shop specialized in selling odd items from around the world. Now, the booth was inside another building called "The Westport Flea Market," a very unusual joint comprised of dozens of booths lining three walls and a hamburger restaurant (that had crab races on Sunday nights!) in the center. I spent many an afternoon and night in that joint while Bob undoubtedly watched me gnawing on a burger. (The place still prides itself as "the best burger in KC," but the Berdella fallout wasn't the greatest publicity for meat-eaters, as you can imagine.)
I never went into his booth, but was familiar with it. I'm pretty sure I even saw him sitting on a stool there a couple times. Another friend of mine did visit there once with a date (talk about a memorable date!), where Bob displayed a human skull for sale. At the time my pal thought it was fake, now, not so much. One thing about Bob, he had clever ways of getting rid of his victims.
When the story broke, we all watched it from the perceived safety of the house on Harrison Street. Suddenly, it didn't feel so safe any longer.
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I walked into my mom's apartment with my customary greeting, expecting to hear sighs of ill health. The way we roll. "Hey, Mom, how're you doing?"
Instead, my mom backed away. "Stop. Stay where you are." Hand out, like some kind of cop or something.
"Why?" I worry she might be sick. "Is something wrong?"
"No, but I'm dangerous!"
Now there are many words to describe my mother, but "dangerous" wouldn't top anyone's list. Well, except for the fact she still thinks Trump is a wonderful, "God-fearing" leader. And, let's not forget when she was still driving past her expiration date, Mr. Magoo-ing her way through orange cones and stop signs. I'm sure she was pretty dangerous then.
But now?
I had no choice but to play along. "Okay, Mom...why are you dangerous?"
"Because it's what everyone keeps telling me. About this virus."
Well. First thing's first, she doesn't really see or talk to anyone. Who are these mysterious people proclaiming her dangerous?
"Mom, you're not dangerous."
"But it's what everyone keeps telling me!" She shakes her head, ticked off that I'm not getting it.
"You're vulnerable, not dangerous!" I raise my voice to get my message across loud and clear. Hard of hearing that she is, I repeat it three times.
"You don't have to yell at me, Stuart!"
But I kinda do since she refuses to get a hearing aid. "Mom...you're considered elderly which makes you more vulnerable right now. I'm probably in that category, too, now. That's what 'they' mean."
Still shaking her head, she's not gonna budge. "Everyone says I'm dangerous, Stuart. You just don't get it."
I get that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, so I'm just gonna live with having a dangerous mom.
Be careful out there, folks. And if you see my mom coming...RUN!
In fact, why not "run" safely to Amazon, and check out the new rerelease of the final book in my Secret Society serial killer, darkly comic thriller series, Killer King, put out by those fine folks at Crossroads Press? Go on...I'll wait for you right here.
My cat's been long gone for many years.
Yet the other night, I had a dream. He and I were back at my parent's house in my bedroom. A tough "teddy" gang of Latino cats started hooting from the street. I whipped up the blinds, saw all kinds of bling and attitude. Cats weren't just frontin'. Truth up, yo.
"C'mon, Tiger, come out and play-ay-ay!" the cats said, evoking that annoying guy from the movie, The Warriors. "Run with us!"
My cat, Tiger, turned to me, said, "Stuart, can I go out with them?"
In astonishment, I replied, "I didn't know you could talk!"
"You never asked me."
You know, some of my dreams just shouldn't be turned into books. Unlike the upcoming Chili Run, a true Freudian nightmare.
But more on that soon...
You guys quit fretting about the break-up of Brangelina. "Studney" is doing just fine. And I know you were wondering about us, the alliance of Stuart and Cydney.
Why?
Because my wife Cydney's been called a "movie star."
Maybe you've seen her many excellent presentations on the Kansas City news channels, promoting the benefits of quality-sealed herbal supplements and the detriments of knock-off products derived from the stem of the plant rather than the root. Lots of that voodoo.
Lately, though, I've been made painfully aware I walk in my wife's shadow.
My mom called me this week (a first! If I don't call her, she kvetches about it). Said she caught my wife's recent interview on TV. Mom was so bedazzled by her appearance ("I was just beside myself!" What does that even mean? Split personality disorder?), she couldn't pay attention to what my wife was saying. Not that it matters, of course, that I've been telling Mom about my wife's TV spots for over ten years. But Mom's from Missouri, the annoying "Show Me" state.
For crying out loud, even my daughter's boyfriend caught Cydney's latest performance.
I didn't know anything about it. The kicker is neither did Cydney before it happened, a last minute thing. The news rolled into her university where she teaches, said, "hey, you wanna talk stuff?"
No big deal to her, she's there go-to gal.
Had it been me, I'd have been sweating like a crooked lawyer running through a sprinkler.
But the biggest deal...the most awful incident regarding my wife's fame...
I took the dog to the vet this week. I walked in and the receptionist says, "Oh." Her shoulders folded, her smile went south and spread into a sneer. "I was hoping to see the movie star, your wife."
It's time to drum up some of my own fame.
Hey!
My third and (literally)
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The only serial killer thriller/dark
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