Six Degrees of Bob Berdella, Kansas City serial killer

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.

On the topic of serial killers, check out my darkly-humorous trilogy of thrillers about beleaguered serial killers under fire. And they're the good guys! (Wait until you meet the bad guys...) That's Secret Society, Strike, and Killer King. Ask for them by name!

Tales From the Sofa

I am Stuart's sofa.

I'm the couch hub of the Midwest, the loveseat heart of suburban Kansas. An upholstery covered melting pot suitable for every race, color, creed, and religious bottom of humanity. There are eight million stories to be told from my cushions and this is one of them. For you see...

Wait. Hold on a minute. It's a lie. All of it!

My life is boring. I get to service Stuart's rear-end only. Day in and day out, he sits on me, writing. Sure, some times his wife parks on me, but as far as variety? Forget about it.

Frankly, watching someone write is really, really boring.

On occasion, though, I'm privy to the insights of the writing process. For instance, Stuart's frequently asked "where do you get your ideas?" Usually--as is his lame and lazy approach--he responds "I don't know." (See what I mean? BORING.)

This hammock thinks it has it bad? Try being me, Stuart's suffering sofa!

But last week, something interesting finally happened. While wearing me down (and would it hurt Stuart to sit on my other side on occasion?), Stuart received a text on his phone.

It read: Hey! It's Theresa! I'm using Tim's phone because I lost mine! See you in a bit! DON'T text back on this phone!

This set Stuart to thinking, never a good idea. He didn't know a Tim or Theresa. He couldn't very well text back, either, tell Theresa she had a wrong number. After all, she'd strictly forbidden him to do so.

Weened on thrillers and mysteries, Stuart started pulling pieces together. Clearly, Theresa was cheating on Tim. The heart emojis sealed the deal. Should Stuart warn Tim? Write back anyway and let Theresa know she had the wrong number?

What did Stuart, the man of inaction, the writer do? Nothing. Altogether now: BORING.

Several hours later, Theresa texted back: Thinking bout you. Had a great time.

Again, Stuart didn't respond. Through-out the day, Theresa kept texting, her anxiety ramping up with each missive: Helloooo? What's wrong? Why aren't you responding? Dammit, talk to me!

Finally, Theresa's final message: That's it. I'm talking to Tim. Even more troublesome? Theresa attached a photo of a baby in a car seat.

Like a Hitchcockian protagonist from days of old, Stuart had unwittingly become an unwilling, silent partner in an affair, the fourth member of a sordid situation that would undoubtedly end in murrrderrrr.

Yes sir, it was the most excitement I'd had since I was a wee settee at the sofa factory.

Stuart deliberated, didn't have a clue as to what to do. In his typically inert fashion, he decided to fashion the incident into a thriller to be written at a later date. The seed of an idea had been planted and his mind began to water it.

So...that's where one of Stuart's book ideas came from.

Wait! Here he comes! Gotta' run. I'll talk to--Oooff!

Highway Empress

Some time ago, my wife and I were tooling down Shawnee Mission Parkway, a major KC metro thoroughfare.

She had uncommonly good luck, hitting one green light after another.

I said, "Wow. You're just hitting all the lights."

"It's not luck. I planned it that way," she said.

I thought about it. Then proclaimed her a god of Shawnee Mission Parkway.

"No. Not a god. An empress," she said.

"How about the Queen of Shawnee Mission Parkway?"

"No, I want to be an empress!"

Well, being her loyal slave, who am I to argue?

All bow down to the mighty Empress of Shawnee Mission Parkway! Huzzah!

For a different kind of royalty, check out Killer King, the third book in the Killers Incorporated trilogy, where serial killers go up against an evil giant mega-corporation. You know...business as usual! https://books2read.com/u/bMr9VG

Click for thrills, chills, blood spills & pitch black humor!

 

Ladies and Gentlemennnn...the Amazing Mr. Balloono!

I'm dieting right now. And it's sheer agonizing hell.

Not too long ago, while dressing, I called out to my wife, "Honey, my clothes are shrinking! Did you change the detergent or something?"

All of my life I've had a history of ballooning, then deflating again. I've gone from one extreme to the other more times than I can remember. Once, when I was younger, I lost close to 100 pounds.

That's a lotta weight to carry around and lose. But I did it. In a short span of time, too.

But apparently, I was a lot younger then. Hmph. The pounds don't seem to be shedding as quickly now. 

For seven long weeks or so, I've pretty much starved myself. I've forced myself to eat kale salads (does anyone truly like kale? Tastes like cardboard, but not nearly as good.), and other things a rabbit wouldn't touch. Every day I get on the treadmill and walk anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour, kicking into high speeds 'till my bad knee starts squelching and catching in the back. By the time I fall off the treadmill, I'm drenched in sweat, smelling worse than a men's locker room. I can't even make it to the sofa, panting and wheezing like bagpipes.

Worst of all, I've had to give up beer! (Well, at least in the fashion I used to enjoy it.) The horror! Can you imagine? What's next? Giving up oxygen?

All of this hard work and sacrifice for a lousy eleven pounds.

Frustrated, I asked my wife why I'm not dumping weight like I used to.

"Because it's harder to lose weight when you get older."

Huh. Of course. My shelf life for fast weight loss had expired. 

The other day my wife asks, "So, when you lose all of your weight, what kind of clothes do you want to get?"

"Well, since I'm an old man now," I snapped, "I may as well start dressing like one. Lessee...I need trousers long enough to reach my armpits, yet crawling up the ankles. Suspenders, maybe. Nice, sensible shirts. Black socks pulled up to the knees, with sandals on top. Ready? Let's go to Sears."

We went looking for a TV and all we have to show for it is this stupid new house!

Bada-boom. And not really. But almost.

My wife--wise and almighty--told me we should never go shopping while "hangry," a term a candy bar commercial adeptly coined, equating one's hungry physical being with an angry mind-set. Ergo, don't make snap purchases at the grocery store.

Back to pertinent business, recently our TV went blinky, double-vision blue and red. It's fine if you wear those awful 3-D glasses with the impossible to clean and always smudged plastic lenses, but otherwise, unacceptable. 

Sunday afternoon, we set out to ogle new TV's. The modern technology mind-boggled, fossilized me into the prehistoric era. I didn't have a clue, still playing videotapes at home, for Gawd's sake.

Out of desperation, over-whelmed, we quit. Made a promise to research. Just like back in school.

On the way home, we saw a house for sale. "Open House," the sign read, a beguiling treasure trove awaiting we failed hunters. Being no fools, tired, "hangry," disgruntled, we slept-walk inside. And fell in love.

Thankfully, keener senses prevailed. We were in no position yet to buy a new house. (Just thinking about our collection of books and movies throws my back out of whack).

But enlightenment struck that day. Food shopping while hungry is one thing, a minor faux pas. Making major life decisions while your mind belongs elsewhere is another.

"Oblivi-shopping." Remember the word. I'm trademarking it.

Contracts should be enacted while oblivi-shopping. Within a 48 hour time period, buyers of a life-changing purchase should not be held responsible if the following preexisting conditions exist:

*Hunger;
*Irritability;
*Stupidity;
*Sleepiness;
*Drunkeness;
*Hemorrhoids;
*Pregnancy;
*Insanity.

I've made remorseful purchasing decisions under the influence of seven of the eight pre-existing conditions.

It's about time someone started looking out for hungry, irritable, stupid, tired, drunk, hemorrhoid-ridden, and sometimes insane people like me!

Caveat Emptor!

Thin Walls, Big Heart

I've mentioned the hard times my dog's had lately. (Even harder on me, as I've been relegated to sub-human status, having to sleep in the guest bedroom on the lower level. But I digress. Contrary to my blog, the world isn't all about me).

After two major leg surgeries, Zak's incision started to bleed. Furthermore, he pulled the leg up high and limped.

Uh-oh.

Once again we carted him off to the emergency vet hospital. Nerves frayed, my wife and I sat in a small room, waiting for a frazzling long time.

Around us, animal pandemonium rose. Cries, squeals, yips, barks, growls, the works.

But the worst--the absolutely, heart-rending worst--was the man facing the reality he had to put his dog to sleep.

I don't know what the man looked like. Couldn't really tell you what his actual voice sounded like. But his words, strangled with sobs, tore through the thin walls like an emotional torpedo.

"I guess I was lucky to've known him. I saved him twice before... He'd always been there. My pal. It'd be selfish of me...not to put him to rest.  Oh...God... Oh, my God... I'm sure gonna' miss him. Whatever you can do to make him more comfortable. This is the hardest day..."

He went on. The doctor stayed respectfully quiet, listening to the man working through his anguish.  By the time he was done, both my wife and I were soap-opera-sodden messes, eyes bleary with tears. And we gave Zak a little bit of extra loving.

The good news is Zak just had issues with fluid or something. I dunno. I was still too distraught over the man in the hallway's angst.

I've put down dogs before. Each time it takes while to get over it. It's sad, yet I know it's the best thing to do. But like Sad Hallway Man, you can't help but be torn up over it. It takes effort to work your way through the steps, internally argue and debate. Cry a bit.

After I put my twin cocker spaniels to sleep, I vowed not to get another dog. Time passed. So did my vow. But I still wonder if pet ownership's worth the awful sadness experienced at the end of a beloved dog's life.

Kinda like how I felt after my divorce some years ago. Should I even risk putting myself through such trauma again? Is the clearly never been in love and broken idiot who said "'Tis better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all" right? 

Eat it, Lord Tennyson. 

But the answer, of course, is yes.

I love my wife.

I love my dog.

I don't so much love sleeping in a tiny bed in the guest room, but whatever. Tis better to sleep than not sleep at all.

Smush-faced, violent kissing on screen!

This goes out to all the ladies. Looks painful, doesn't it?

The '50's and early '60's presented a line of cinematic leading men who really threw themselves into their kissing scenes. What gusto!

I'm talking smashed face, violent, lips out of whack, full-on kissing that didn't look comfortable at all. The man would just thrust his lips and mouth all over his poor unsuspecting costar and hold her tight, captive, by the shoulders. Painful.

Was this considered romantic back then?

Let's see...we had George Peppard. Man, he liked to really get in there, smash, wiggle about, do some serious lip damage. Bogart always looked like a very uncomfortable kisser, but Lauren Bacall apparently disagreed. Gregory Peck, stalwart that he was, always looked ill at ease making out. Sure, his characters were always supposed to be rock solid moral, but his kissing scenes appeared just as wooden. James Dean always looked like he was kissing himself. Anthony Quinn and Ernest Borgnine are probably better left unmentioned (but some time look up how Ernest used to torture his wife with a "dutch oven." The horror, the horror!).

Movies taught me how to romance women. So I smooshed my way through high school, into early college. Sorry for the bruised lips, girls.

Probably shoulda' watched different movies.

The mad (boy) scientist!

Not a hyperbolic '50's sci-fi film! Not a cautionary tale ripped from today's headlines about a meth-cooking tweaker in the Midwest!

This is an autobiographical tale of scientific discovery and ensuing tragedy.

In the '70's, I asked "Santa Claus" for a chemistry set. He delivered.

Hunkered in the basement, the first thing I tackled was an experiment involving sulfur, wax and flame. (If you're wondering what a kid was doing playing with fire in the basement, that was par for the course in the late '60's and early '70's. All the cool toys involved an element of danger. Miniature hot plates that could set houses on fire! Dangerous electrical devices that produced sun-like heat! Red hot iron plates. Sure you suffered burns from time to time. Part of the cool allure. Nothing like the namby-pamby, politically correct and all-too-boring toys made nowadays.) Anyway, my first experiment produced a rotten egg smell. Awesome!

It worked so well, the entire house reeked and my parents confiscated my chemistry set. Man! Parents are such a drag!

Two years later...

"But, Mom and Dad," I whined, "I love science..."

Shamelessly, I played to my parents' wish (hope?) that an intelligent person resided somewhere in my juvenile delinquent body.

Ta daaa! That Christmas, I got another chemistry set! Beautiful! 

Immediately, I retreated to my basement lab. And commenced with the rotten egg smell again.

Thirty minutes later, my second chemistry set was confiscated.

Parents just don't get it! Sooo uncool!

I think they pretty much gave up on me at that point.

STRIKE: Killers Incorporated, Book #2!

AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE...NOW!

The killers are back in town.

Leon Garber’s an accountant and occasional assassin.  But he’s one of the good guys.  See, Leon’s only interested in taking out abusers. He’s not the only serial killer on a mission, though. His past employer, Like Minded Individuals, Inc. (LMI for short), employs quite a few. 

Mostly, Leon was a model employee. Or at least, he was until that little falling-out he had with them last year.  Now he’s got a target on his back.  He’s seriously out-numbered, but even worse, LMI has hired Leon’s former associate, Cody Spangler, to track him down. Unfortunately for Leon, someone else from Leon’s past, someone he never wanted to see again, has other ideas for Leon’s welfare. 

But now’s the time to strike. Old allies and dangerous new acquaintances join together to fight back. A team of disgruntled killers have banded together. The operative? Take down LMI. Or die trying.

Strike: Killers Incorporated Book #2

Serial killers have never been so much fun. Trust me. Many more dysfunctional and nutty characters are introduced: Nanette, the black widow; The I-35 Vampire; The Dobermann Pincher; Mr. Sensitivity; Bug; and, of course, my favorite: The Man with the Shoebox.

BOOK #ONE AVAILABLE HERE!

If you haven't already, get in on the ground floor with the first book, Secret Society. The only book to come with a "punch in the face" guarantee!* That's right! If you don't like Secret Society, I'll come to your house and you can punch me in the face!*

*Disclaimer: The reader must live within a one block range of said author's residence. Traveling is expensive. Plus, as much as I love this book, I also kinda like my face. Warning: Don't read Secret Society while driving heavy machinery. Don't mix prescription drugs with Secret Society. If drowsiness ensues, then you're not reading Secret Society. Pregnant women should not read Secret Society unless consulting me first and I say it's okay. If a rash persists while reading Secret Society, call your doctor and tell him to read Secret Society.

A new milestone: my first bee sting(s)!

Last weekend, I was doing yard work. Just finished mowing the yard, sweating and panting like a gorilla, and I thought why finish there? How about trimming (a chore I tend to only do twice a year; yeah, I'm one of those kinda neighbors)?

Proud of my chutzpah, I trimmed around the garden in front. Suddenly, my thigh was on fire. Huh, I thought, that's odd. I scratched like mad, tamped my thigh many times just in case somehow a spark from the trimmer had crawled up my shorts. That's when I noticed the ground cover hazy like heat off hot tarmac. I'd stumbled into a horror movie's worth of bees swarming around me.

I shrieked (a manly shriek, mind you) more out of panic than terror. Then a bee landed on my wrist. Couldn't shake it off, blow it off, thwack it off.

Okay, I've never been stung before. And at age 54, I truly thought I was gonna live the rest of my life without suffering through this heinous rite of passage. Whatever.

Be that as it may, I'd like to clear up some untrue myths about bee stings. Pay attention class...

First, it's not the sharp bite you hear about. Rather it's a burning sensation, acid eating your skin. And it won't go away. Think I'd rather have the instant BLAMMO and be done with it.

Second, whoever said that if you don't show fear in front of a bee, it won't sting you. What a load of crap! I didn't even know they were in my vicinity until they started burning my skin off. The fear came later. (But it seems I'm now on the bee's radar; lately when I've walked the dog, they chase me. I suppose the sight of a big man and large dog running from a bee may look amusing to some people, but it's no laughing matter when you're running for your life).

Third, once a bee stings you, it dies. Not these buggers! They kept attacking like the Energizer Bunny, stinging me time and again. My hand swelled up into a bowling ball. My thigh contains a map of the world in bruises. I didn't even get to take satisfaction that my enemies would die afterward.

Fourth, to become immune to bee stings, eat five worker bees. Yeah, be my guest. I understand the Golden Poison Arrow Frog tastes great over a grill, too.

Fifth, if you dig the stinger out with a knife and quickly suck the venom out, you won't suffer any consequences. Except for going to the ER with a carved up hand and poison in your belly.

Perhaps I need to invest in a full-on hazard suit for future yard work. Or pay the neighborhood kid to take his chances.

For more sheer terror, check out Secret Society (the book formerly known as {just like Prince!} The Secret Society of Like-Minded Individuals) from Books We Love Publishing: Extremely friendly purchase linky.