Rites of Burial

390 Pages·1998·34.054 MB·English

by  Tom Jackman, Troy Cole

CRUEL ACTS OF
TORTURE AND \
MUTILATION MORE \
BRUTAL THAN THE
CRIMES OF MILWAUKEE
^
SERIAL KILLER
JEFFREY DAHMER!
I
—
iUJ'
THE SHOCKING TRUE CRIME
ACCOUNT OF ROBERT BERDELLA,
THE BUTCHER OF KANSAS CITY,
MISSOURI!
.' ^'
TOMJACKMAN
/
andTROYCOLE
/
A
/;
PINNACLE
U.S.$6.50
CAN
$8.50
EAN
NIGHTMARE ON CHARLOTTE STREET
Tuesday, March 30, 1988. Chris Bryson revived about
eight a.m., to find himself in pain, bound to a metal bed,
and his mouth so tightly gagged he could hardly breathe.
His head still hurt from the beating he'd received the night
before from the man he knew only as "Bob."
He heard someone enter the room. It was him. Bob.
Bryson's eyes popped wide open. Panic sped through his
brain as the large man cUmbed on his chest and began to
beat him repeatedly with an iron bar.
After what seemed like hours, Bob moved off him and
onto the floor. Bryson began to feel sharp pain coming
from his legs. His captor had attached metal clamps to
him and was sending electrical charges through his body
from a transformer near the bed. As Bryson snapped rigid
with each jolt, he could see a flash and hear the whirring
sound of Bob's Polaroid camera as he took photos o^ his
agony.
The shocks, the torture, the photo flashes. Was this re
ally happening to him? How much longc would th
nightmare go on?
Chris Bryson had no way of knowing
Bob had just begun.
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OF
RITES
BURIAL
Tom Jackman and
Troy Cole
?
Pinnacle Books
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.pinnaclebooks.com
Some names have been changed to protect the privacy ofindi-
viduals connected to this story.
PINNACLE BOOKS are pubhshed by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 1992 by Tom Jackman and Troy Cole
Credits for cover photos:
Top left: James Ferris (courtesy of Bonnie Ferris)
Top right: Jerry Howell (courtesy of Paul Howell, Sr.)
Center: RobertBerdella(courtesyofKansasCityPoliceDepart-
ment)
Bottom: Robert Sheldon (courtesy of Kansas City Police
Department)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form or by any means without the prior written consent
of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Ifyou purchasedthisbookwithoutacoveryoushouldbeaware
that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold
and destroyed" to the Publisher and neitherthe Authornor the
Publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
Pinnacle and the P logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Printing: June, 1992
10 9 8 7 6 5 4
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
Though the desolate streets of downtown Kansas City
assumeaneeriecahn after dusk, certainpockets ofactivity
still seethe with life. For men seeking sex with other men,
theareaaround 10th and McGee Streets has long beenone
of those sordid pockets. The tall buildings channel a cut-
ting wind south fromthe Missouri River, causing thecasu-
ally loitering young men to hunch their shoulders against
the cold or duck into one of the shadowy doorways that
Une McGee Street. For years a Trailways bus station an-
chored the block, dropping newcomers and natives mto
theheartofthe city. Across the street sat Joseph's Lounge,
aquiet and uneasygaybar. InmanylargeAmerican cities,
bus stations have been perennial meeting places for male
prostitutes. Homosexuals are thus drawn to certain grimy
urban neighborhoods, where a quick, professional "date"
can be found or, even better, a willing stranger, new to
town, looking to make some fast dollars.
The bus station was gone, but the gaunt young men
stayed. Cars circled the block frequently, at all hours, the
drivers leaning down to check out the boys in their short
A
jackets and tightjeans, trading glances, no subtlety. lin-
gering glance signaled a possible deal, a stroll over to the
passenger window, then maybe an unlocked dooi; and a
drive to another squahd part of town.
On a clear spring night, Chris Bryson stepped out ofthe
shadows and into the dull glow of the street hghts. As he
strolled north toward 9th Street, he wore a black pullover
short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans and tennis shoes, his Hght
brown hair sprouting out of a part in the middle, his wide
shoulders slightly tensed. Like manyofthe downtown hus-
tlers, Bryson came from Kansas City's East Side, a large
area of tightly packed, lower middle-class homes whose
residents form a son of gruff fraternity. There was no
money to be made on the East Side, though. The Johns
were downtown. The male prostitutes, or "chicken hawks"
as the cops called them, weren't necessarilygay; some were
dropped off by their girlfriends or wives at the start of an
evening. It was just a low-overhead, make-your-own-hours
vi-ay to pull in some cash, mainly for food, booze or drugs.
One car that circled the block regularly was a copper-
colored Toyota Tercel hatchback. Many of the chicken
hawks were famihar with the driver, a heavyset man with
wire-rimmed gla?;ies dud 'imustache. Someeven feared the
man, and wouldn't go witli liiiw. Sometimes he stopped,
sometimes he just circled and looked. Bryson hadn't seen
him before. WTien the man asked if he wanted to party,
Bryson op>ened the passenger side door and chmbed in. It
was about 1 a.m., Tuesday morning, March 29, 1988.
The slightly dangerous experience of getting into a
stranger's car wasn't an entirely new one for Bryson.
Though he was only twenty-two, he'd spent some time on
the streets after dropping out of high school, at one point
doing some burglary and a little prostitution to makea few
extra bucks. The adrenaline rush of entering an unknown
person's car added an edge to the scramble for spare
change, change that often would go toward a few joints or
a small packet ofcocaine. It was a rush that Bryson hadn't
pursued quite so often recently, after settling down, getting
married, and fathering a child. But the charge of a quick
hit of cocaine, smoked or snorted, was the famihar sensa-
tion Brysonsought again on this night, and hustling was a
necessary means to that end.
The driver seemed hannless enough: maybe thirty-five
or forty years old, average height, receding hairline, soft-
spoken, a slight lisp. His rounded face featured a mus-
tache which drooped past the sides of his mouth, and his
sad eyes suggested the unthreatening look of a business-
man acting on a hidden impulse.
*Want a beer?" the man asked. They're in the back."
''Sure,'* Bryson said, reaching around to pull a can of
beer from a cooler. "Want one?** Bryson asked the man.
•TMo," the man said.
Bryson popped his beer open.
"My name's Bob,** the man told him.
**rm Chris," Bryson said.
"WhatVe you been doing?" the man asked.
"Oh, just partying a Uttle, you know," Bryson replied.
"Oh yeah? What kind?"
"Oh, just, you know, a little coke."
"That's cool," Bob said. "I'm not that into uppers
though, I'm more into downers." Bob listed a few of the
depressants he preferred.
"Ever shoot any of those?" Bob asked.
"No."
"Well, I've got some Valiums at my place," Bob said.
We're going to his house, Bryson thought. Better than a
sleazy hotel or a deserted lot. But Bob didn't seem gay,
Bryson told himself, so maybe he didn't have to worry
about turning a trick. Maybe just get stoned for an hour
or two, then go home. Bryson knew that men who drive
around late at night are often just lonely partiers, getting
drunk or high or both. He glanced over at the paunchy
man he'd just met, and decided he had nothing to fear
from this guy. Bryson, streetwise and sturdily built, spoke
inchpped, nasaltones withanatural swagger. He was con-
fident he could take care of himself.
As they talked a little more, though, Bryson began to
think that maybe Bob was looking for more than a party
pal. As they drove south toward Bob's house. Bob asked
him suggestively, **What are you into?** Bryson knew what
Bob meant.
"Whatever," Bryson responded indifferently, resigning
himself to having to earn his pay.
Bob parked his Toyota on Charlotte Street, and the two
men climbed out. They walked up the concrete steps, then
stepped on to the wooden front porch of a beige, three-
story frame house with dark brown trim. Large wooden
numbers nailed next to the doorway announced that this
was 4315. Bob unlocked the door, opened it, and Bryson
walked in first.
As Bryson stood in the front hallway. Bob moved to a
set of closed French doors to the right. He opened them,
and Brysonwalkedinto aclutteredhving room. Bryson sat
down on the couch, pulled out his cigarettes and Ht one.
Bob walked out of the room and toward the kitchen.
"Want another beer?" Bob called out to Bryson.
"Sure."
Bob returned from the kitchen and handed Bryson an-
other can of beer. Bryson could hear some dogs moving
around inthe back ofthe house. Heglanced around at the
mess—papers and magazines piled everywhere, antiques
and otherjunk draped over chairs and tables. Bob had ac-
cumulated stacks of beads, pendants, paintings, books
and assorted oddities ever since moving to Kansas City
as a college art student in 1967. Even while growing
up in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, Bob had shown a strong
interest in art, and his interests had diversified as his
curiosity grew. He never really specialized in any one
area; he enjoyed dabbling, and over the years, parts
of his house took on the look of a clogged museum.
One of his upstairs bedrooms even had display
cases filled with ceramics and small sculptures, while
8