The Adversary

Prologue

1

Posted in the US Custom House and Post Office, Kansas City, Missouri.

*** WANTED ***

DEAD OR ALIVE

WESLEY NELSON

AKA The Missouri Mauler

AKA The Babyface Killer

$1000 REWARD

6’ 1" Tall

175 Lbs.

Red Hair, Fair Complexion

Brown Eyes

Carpenter By Trade

Wanted for murder and rape in Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. Has killed men, women, and children ranging in age from 5 to 61. Is known to impersonate law men and other professions to gain close proximity to victims. Will be armed and dangerous. Has committed murder by use of firearm, knife, and strangulation. Immediately contact the nearest US Marshal’s office with information, living prisoner, or proof of execution. June 6, 1898.

2

An excerpt from…

Tales of True Crime

Published 1997

Chapter 9

Serial Killers of the Wild West

Page 148, Entry Wesley Nelson

Serial Killer Wesley Nelson, also known as the Missouri Mauler, or the Babyface Killer, was active from 1879 to the time of his death in 1898. While the details of Wesley’s demise are somewhat unclear, it is generally accepted he was killed by his final victim with the aid of an unnamed bounty hunter.

Wesley Nelson is believed to have killed his first victim at the age of nine. Five-year-old Sadie Castle lived five units down from Wesley, and several witnesses reported the two children playing together on March 4th, 1879. This was just hours before she went missing. Sadie was found naked, savagely beaten, and strangled behind their apartment complex later that night. Wesley was interviewed by authorities, but cleared of involvement given his young age. Wesley would not kill again until the age of eighteen.

When he was sixteen, Wesley dropped out of school and took up learning carpentry in Kansas City, Missouri. His father was supportive of Wesley learning a trade, but he would not accept Wesley’s refusal to get a proper education. He insisted Wesley improve his ability to read and write or he would no longer be welcome in the family home. His father asked Sarah Vanoy, a sixty-one-year-old retired schoolteacher, to tutor the boy in the evenings. Wesley agreed and diligently attended her tutoring sessions until he was seventeen years old and had proven his ability to read and write proficiently. Sarah told his father that Wesley was a natural student and gifted in the English language; now that he’d decided to apply himself to learning. Wesley also became good friends with Sarah’s son, name unknown, and would frequently socialize with the boy until leaving Kansas City at eighteen.

In the early morning of April 15th, 1888, Wesley gained entry to Sarah’s small, two-bedroom home in Eastern Kansas City. Sarah was widowed, but her son still lived at the home. However, at the time, he had already reported to work for the day at a nearby factory. Wesley quietly retrieved a pistol from her son’s bedroom, then awakened Sarah at gunpoint. It is unknown what conversation they had, but based on other victim accounts, he likely told her his intention was to steal money and leave town.

Wesley had cut the clothesline from Sarah’s backyard and utilized the cord to restrain her to her bed. Each limb was secured to a bedpost, with the cords wrapped under the bed frame. Sarah’s clothes were cut off her body and she was then brutally raped and tortured over a period of several hours. Wesley stabbed Sarah multiple times during intercourse, but the wounds were shallow and not life-threatening.

Sarah was then cut loose and taken to the cellar, where she was shot, execution-style, in the back of the head. Wesley shot her two more times in the face before positioning her corpse on all fours and inserting the pistol into her vagina. Staging, or posing the victims, was a signature Wesley would continue throughout his gruesome career.

Having known the victim, and seen in the area before the murder, Wesley was questioned about Sarah’s death. There was likely some suspicion over Wesley’s involvement, but he was ultimately dismissed as a suspect. Several months after Sarah’s murder, Wesley left Kansas City and traveled through the Midwest looking for work as a carpenter.

Over the next several years, Wesley would gain employment in various towns and immediately make a good impression with his skill and work ethic. But over time, his odd behavior would cause friction with both his employers and customers. Inevitably, Wesley would commit a murder closely connected to his known associations, and he would leave town. By 1892, Wesley was wanted for multiple murders and a bounty was placed on his head. At its peak, the bounty never surpassed $1000, which was relatively small for a killer of multiple victims.

By the time of his death in 1898, Wesley was believed to have committed fourteen murders, nine rapes, and countless burglaries. It was also in 1898 that Wesley selected his final victim. While working in Fateville, Arkansas at Colton Furniture, Wesley became obsessed with Susan Colton, wife of proprietor Henry Colton. Susan would run the front office of Colton’s Furniture and often acted as an indirect supervisor to the hired hands working in the store. Although he was a skilled carpenter, Wesley was only hired to deliver furniture to customers. He often resented this, harboring anger towards Henry. Other employees recounted how Wesley often talked about Henry and how he was unworthy of Susan. He would go on to say that if Henry ever hurt Susan, Wesley would make him pay. His co-workers attributed this to his odd behavior.

But on September 6th, 1898, Wesley unexpectedly showed up at the Colton residence. It was nearly sundown when Henry discovered Wesley crouched behind the bushes in his front yard. Having been asked for an explanation, Wesley claimed another worker was angry with Henry and was coming to his house to shoot him. Wesley, concerned for the Colton family’s safety, immediately came to the Colton Residence and was trying to locate the potential gunman. He told Henry that he should retrieve his rifle and help search the property. When Henry turned, Wesley struck him on the back of the head with a small wooden club he had concealed in a leather satchel. This satchel accompanied Wesley to many of his crimes, and it is said he referred to it as his hit kit (a phrase later adopted by another mid-western serial killer, named Dennis Rader, also known as the BTK).

The two men entered the home, scuffling as Wesley tried to subdue Henry further. He was eventually knocked unconscious, at which point Wesley forced Susan to reveal where Henry kept his pistol. He assured her his only concern was money and leaving town, but he needed time to think, and wanted a gun to keep things under control. Believing Wesley’s story, she complied and helped him retrieve Henry’s sidearm. Henry eventually regained consciousness, and both he and Susan were led into the cellar at gunpoint. Susan was forced to tie Henry to a wooden beam with a rope that Wesley carried in his leather satchel.

After ensuring Henry was secured to the cellar beam, Wesley escorted Susan back upstairs and tied her to the bedposts. He maintained his intention was to obtain money and leave town, and frequently went back and forth from Susan to Henry as well as pilfering through the contents of their home.

On his final trip down to the cellar, Wesley revealed a large knife taken from the Colton’s kitchen. He taunted Henry for several minutes, calmly describing his sexual intentions with Susan. And then, without warning, he plunged the kitchen knife into Henry’s chest. Wesley then proceeded upstairs where he revealed his true intentions to Susan and began his slow and tortuous ritual of rape.

Unknown to Wesley, Henry was still alive. The knife had missed his heart and vital arteries, and his bindings had become loose enough to free himself. Fortunately, Henry had also been working on a rifle in the cellar. It was in working condition, but only had one bullet in the chamber. Despite being beaten unconscious and stabbed, Henry was able to find the strength to pull himself upstairs and confront Wesley.

In another unusual turn of events, an unknown bounty hunter was investigating a tip that Wesley Nelson, AKA the Missouri Mauler, might be working at a local furniture store under the name Weston Harper. The bounty hunter was paying a visit to the owner of said furniture store to ask questions about the employee, Weston. He opted to visit the owner’s residence, as opposed to the furniture store, so as not to alert Wesley. When arriving at the residence of Henry Colton, the bounty hunter heard several gunshots and entered the home.

Henry Colton, still alive and determined to save his wife, had found Wesley naked, looming over Susan, holding a pistol. Henry called out to Wesley and fired, striking him in the shoulder and sending him reeling against the wall. But Wesley also fired his pistol, fatally striking Henry in the head.

Susan began screaming hysterically, prompting Wesley to club her with the butt of his pistol. It was at this moment the bounty hunter entered the room and took aim at the assailant. However, the bounty hunter’s pistol jammed and he was also shot in the head by Wesley. Yet the wound did not prove fatal. Disoriented and in pain, the bounty hunter fell to the ground and dropped his firearm. Wesley, surprised by both rescue attempts, quickly fled the home, still naked, with only his gun in hand.

Shortly after, the bounty hunter came to. He checked Henry Colton for a pulse and determined he was deceased. He pulled the large kitchen knife from the man’s chest and cut Susan’s bindings. He then left the house in pursuit of Wesley. But perhaps still disoriented, he did not retrieve his firearm. The facts of what happened next are the subject of much debate, but the best evidence suggests that Susan retrieved the bounty hunter’s pistol and followed both men out. She caught up to them and just before Wesley was about to shoot the bounty hunter again, she killed Wesley with a single shot to the head.

Most unusual of all was that Wesley’s body was never recovered. Many have speculated as to what happened, but by all accounts, it was gone before lawmen arrived. Despite the lack of a corpse, the reputation of both Susan Colton and the unknown bounty hunter compelled the US Marshall’s Office to award the bounty split two ways. It is said the bounty hunter gave his half to Susan Colton, who was now a widow. Although there is speculation to this day, it is widely agreed that Wesley Nelson was killed in this encounter and no further murders were ever attributed to him. Despite Wesley’s horrific crimes and double-digit body count, he is best known for being a serial killer who was killed by one of his victims.

Part One

The Tragedies That Shape Us

"I have no restraint

I have no fear

I keep death at my side

I hold it so dear

I have no remorse

I have no fear

I keep death at my side

I keep it so near." HARNISH, The Adversary

1

Last Night, It Was a Reaper

Last night, it was a reaper. The embodiment of death. Its tattered black robe whipped in the warm August wind. A black hood surrounded what should have been a face. Or a skull. But there was neither. Only a deep void of black.

John, at five feet and eleven inches, stood frozen and stared up at the creature. It was easily seven feet tall. The handle of its sickle planted into the ground like a wizard’s staff. A curved blade arced above its head and spit out shimmers of moonlight.

John had no intention of fleeing from the creature. But what did he intend to do? The same as every time before, he felt paralyzed with fear. But other emotions were boiling up inside him. Rage was closest to the surface. It wailed at the fear and sent electric bolts through his arms and legs. Move John. Destroy it!

How does one do such a thing? Bring death to Death? It was certainly a hopeless endeavor, but still a righteous one. Hadn't this monster taken everything? Even if John were to die, isn't trying to kill it the only thing worth living for?

A scream was working its way up from John's belly, like lava rushing to escape the Earth in a fiery explosion. No, not a scream. A battle cry. It erupted from John's mouth. Aaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr! There was a gun in his hand, and he raised it at this angel of death. The creature’s eyes caught fire inside the deep black of its hood. They glowed like hot coals, giving glimpses of the foul thing’s skull. The gun in his hand suddenly grew hot. The metal barrel turned into molten goo, and he dropped it onto the ground. It burned in a pile at his feet. Desperate, his hands thrust upwards in an attempt to grab the reaper's neck.

John could sense the sickle moving at supernatural speed, slicing through the air. In those milliseconds of time, he was able to wonder if his impending death would hurt. To wonder if his head, lopped off and falling to the ground, would still see as it fell? In his heart, he mostly expected instant darkness. The same never-ending blackness of the reaper's face.

But instead, John felt a tickle on his cheek. Something was buzzing around him and brushed against his face. Small flakes of snow landed on his lips and melted. He opened his eyes and then immediately squinted at the flood of daylight. Blackness, this was not. A buzzing insect made another pass at John's face, and he swatted it away. Was it a fly, or possibly a bee?

Too damn cold for bugs, he complained in a raspy voice.

His head ached. It ached from yesterday's overindulgence of whiskey. It ached from the dream. The goddamn recurring nightmare that John seemed doomed to have for the rest of his life. This time it was a reaper. True, it had never been that before. But it was always some type of monster. A stand-in beast, filling in for the creature's true form. He could remember every blood-soaked detail of that night. He just couldn't remember what spilled all the blood.

2

Dead Brothers and Brain Tumors

You've been asleep for two days, ya’ know that? remarked John's brother Jerry. Deceased now for twenty-five years, Jerry looked as alive as ever. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head. As kids, their beds were side by side and that's always how Jerry preferred to lay. He would look up at the ceiling and ramble to John for all hours of the night. And now, here he was again, still twelve years old, lying next to John's campfire.

John was lying on his side and still squinting from the sudden brightness. Yet that was Jerry alright. He could see and hear him as clear as day.

You're not real. I'm not still dreaming, I know that. But you're not real, John muttered.

Jerry turned to look at John with a smug sneer. He felt around the ground next to him until he found a good size pebble. He hurled it across the camp, hitting John in the face. That feel real?

John, head throbbing and face now stinging, felt a pang of anger. Then suddenly nostalgic. This definitely wasn't real, but delusion or not, it was nice to see his little brother I missed you, butthole. John smiled and burst into laughter.

I missed you too, dickhead. Jerry flashed a crooked grin John hadn't seen in over two decades.

In an already strange world, things were even stranger lately. John had been seeing things. Shadows and shapes in the corner of his eye. Figures and people far ahead of him on the road. People that always seemed to fade as he got closer. Mirages, he had told himself. And there were also smells. For the last week, John kept catching the distinct smell of oranges. He had only encountered the citrus scent a handful of times in his life. Mainly as a kid, when Cal Piglee would get a shipment in at his general store. It was a wonderful smell. And now here it was again, on the brisk November wind, in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma.

What's wrong with me? John asked.

In the future, they'll call it glioblastoma. Jerry seemed sullen now.

Gly-Ooo-Blaztoma?

Jerry scrunched his face and paused in thought. Remember Uncle Ricky, and how he got that big lump in his neck? And it kept getting bigger and bigger and then he got sicker and sicker until he died?

Yes?

It's like you've got one of those, but it's on your brain. Brain cancer. Glioblastoma. Bad shit.

I'm dying?

Yes. You've had it a long time now. But it was kind of, I don't know. Sleeping. Now it’s awake and its tentacles are moving down through your brain. Making you see things. Smell things. Giving you headaches and making you sleep for days on end.

Is that why I'm seeing you? Are you a ghost or a hallucination?

A little bit of both, maybe. Who knows? But that's not what's important. Jerry’s tone turned to impatience.

It seems pretty fucking important.

It's going to kill you, but it also protects you... from him. Jerry turned on his side to face John. Small tendrils of smoke were coming up from a nearly dead campfire that burned between them. The coals gave off just enough heat to give Jerry's face a wavy quality.

I don't want protection from him. I want to find him. John felt his heart beat faster. His clenched fists started to shake. I want to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze until his eyes pop out of his head. There was a short pause, then John felt the anger subside and he dropped his eyes. "But I don't even know what it is. Is it even a him?"

"It's definitely a him. Jerry paused briefly, considering his next words. That thing in your head doesn't just protect you from his power. It doesn’t just blind him from seeing inside your mind. It draws you to him. Brings you close. You must know that by now. But your time is running out, John. "

Getting close to him isn’t fucking good enough! I'm always too late! Just like I was with my family. I'm there in time to see his carnage. John's voice was getting louder. I'm never there to stop it.

Then quit drinking so much. Quit sleeping so much. Move quicker. Think quicker. Follow the lights.

If you can tell me all this, just tell me where he is! Tell me where to go. Tell me how I stop him.

There are rules, big bubba. I can't do that. Now get moving.

And just like that, twelve-year-old Jerry was gone again. With a groan, John pulled himself into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. Had he really slept for two days? Had he stirred enough to keep the fire going? It was down to coals now, but it surely would have burned out had he slept for that long. Or did his dead little brother stoke the fire for him