The Widows Who Lost Their Heads

The Widows Who Lost Their Heads

by Charlie Fischer



In 1951 Salvatore Luchisi decided to buy a butcher shop in San Francisco, California. The shop, located between California and Jackson on Cherry Street was enriched with the patronage of Pacific Heights and Laurel Heights customers. Sal was wealthy, but not happy. His customers, many quite rich, often irritated Salvatore; he couldn’t bring himself to accept one particular personality. He was unable to cope with the elderly, rich, society widows, who demanded extraordinary service from him, and he became slightly mad. His other customers presented a great deal of joy to Sal; it was merely the old, rich, society widows, who demanded unjust much service from him, that turned Sal, from a level headed business man, to a maniac retail proprietor. The illness Sal suffered from took seven years to mature, and it didn’t even have a name except for, maybe, demonitis. Sal suffered from demonitis.

Mrs. Steel was an example of the personality type that changed Sal. She wanted her New York cut steaks trimmed of fat with the excess fat put in a plastic bag for her private use and a weight of three-quarters of a pound, not an ounce more nor an ounce less; the meat was to be exactly three-quarters of an inch thick, or she wouldn’t accept it. She wanted her steaks wrapped in see through plastic wrap, not opaque butcher paper and demanded all nutritional information be listed. She wanted to know how many calories were in the steak, as how many grams of fat and fiber were there. She wanted this and more information printed out and taped to the see through plastic. The meat, itself, had to come from corn fed cattle, so Salvatore had to order Mrs. Steel’s and several other rich widows’ steaks from a special, distant, and expensive wholesaler, and he had to deliver to her within ten minutes from the time he closed at 5:00 pm. His asking price per pound had better not reflect his extra cost over and above the traditional grade AA USDA choice meat he sold, or not only would he loose the dozen or so widow’s business, but their family and friends’ as well. It wasn’t only the elderly, rich widows’ demands that riddled Sal with hellish hatred for them; it was, also, their demeaning attitude. The widows’ haughty, high and mighty speaking voice, looks, gestures and feelings slowly put Sal out of his mind. Their dominating composure and perpetual gossiping about his “awful meat” pierced Sal with a hatred so intense, that he developed a hatred for them that ran so deep, it turned his eyes blood shot. They deliberately, and with delight, made him feel inferior, stupid, and subservient, like an animal of burden. These ladies frowned with disgust upon his every slightest gesture, and Mr. Salvatore Luchisi held as much hatred for these women as he had for the criminal act he imagined himself committing against them. Luchisi felt like torturing these customers to a slow and painful death. These feelings became so extraordinarily strong, at times, he bit his lip to keep from picking up a knife and cutting out their heart when speaking with the ladies in his shop. Sal, with the strength of a lioness protecting her young, resisted that knife, and he became proud of it.

Mr. Luchisi was so successful in keeping himself under control through out the years, that he believed with the faith of a saint that he would never even back talk to one of the widows. His composure was so well developed that not one soul could imagine that he had held this demonic feeling within for all of that time. This hatred was so venomous and so well hidden behind his business like front that only a highly trained criminologist or doctor might observe his inner condition. It was this polished, up front, demeanor that won for Sal his reputation of being a kind hearted soul; even the widows acknowledged how gentlemanly Sal behaved, though they suspected he hid a bit of a dislike for their individualistic style of doing business as his customers.

It was on a Friday afternoon that Sal gave host to a few thoughts regarding the recent hives that had developed upon his back. Could they have stemmed from dealing with these few dozen widows? Has serving them made him ill? After visiting his dermatologist, Sal knew the painful hives on his back have erupted due to his misery in dealing with the widows. The doctor detected that there was something so reprehensible in Sal’s life and that it was so disturbing to Him, that it caused the boil like eruptions on his back and buttocks. Salvatore Luchisi lost his power to hold his bitter and damnable hatred within. Salvatore decided to kill the widows.

That evening, after closing shop, Salvatore had a delivery to Mrs. Steel‘s; he was to bring her the New York cut steaks she ordered every Friday. As this was the thirteenth of the month, Sal snickered to himself. He snickered, and snickered, and snickered at the irony of it all; he, noted for his mild nature, was planning the death of Mrs. Steel, and the day was Friday the thirteenth. His snickers, though slight, frightened him, as they didn’t have a natural source. His snickers were from hell, and he couldn’t help it. He wrapped his cleaver in ten white shop towels, and put two large and two smaller, filet, knives along with ten more shop towels in a large delivery utensil. He inserted the two New York cut steaks into the utensil as well, and then plodded his way to his vehicle. He slowly and with a warm and pleasant emotionally charged feeling of happiness, drove to Mrs. Steel’s in order to kill her.

On arriving at Mrs. Steel’s large mansion on Walnut Street, he made his way to the servant’s entrance, down a path on the side of the mansion, took out his key, issued to him by Mrs. Steel, and unlocked the servant’s entrance door. He climbed the stairs leading to the pantry, made his way through the pantry into the kitchen and put the steaks into the refrigerator, as he was accustomed to doing. From there, instead of leaving, as he normally did, he took out the knives he bought along and tucked them into his belt. He followed his way into the living room, through and out of the room, and into the sitting room, adjacent to her bedroom, where he knew Mrs. Steel read her books while sipping tea. He crept up behind her, and with a swift, and mightily powerful swath of his cleaver, he beheaded her. He, in extreme fear, hurried through the remainder of his dastardly and maniac actions of stabbing Mrs. Steel’s body repeatedly with each and every one of the knives that he had brought along. He stabbed her in her breasts and vagina at least thirty times. Quickly, and with the precision of the experienced butcher he was, he ferociously, with an absurdly rapid rate of speed, repeatedly wiped clean an unreasonably number of times each of the four knives of Mrs. Steel’s blood and rewrapped them in the other unused, clean towels. He put these into the delivery utensil, and shoved Mrs. Steel’s head in there also. Just before departing, he had an idea: “If I could make these killings appear as a robbery, I’ll feel better.” He swiftly, like a hungry cat to it’s milk, entered Ms. Steel’s bedroom and put as many of her jewels into his pockets as he could. He, then, departed the crime scene, and went to Ocean Beach at the foot of Lincoln Way, parked his vehicle, scurried out to the sand, dug a hole with his hands, and buried Mrs. Steel’s head along with the bloody towels. He left the knives and cleaver in the delivery utensil. Salvatore Luchisi snickered, and snickered. One of the dozen or so widows wouldn’t be making him ill anymore.

Salvatore trudged through the sand, up to his vehicle, with the delivery utensil housing the knives, and went to Mrs. Dillingwater’s home three doors from Mrs. Steel’s. Here, he followed his chosen way through the servant’s entrance by opening it with still another key he was given, and cheerfully called Mrs. Dillingwater’s name. Mrs. Dillingwater hearing, her name called, and recognizing Sal’s voice, responded, “Here I am, butcher; in here. What is it? What do you want at this hour, tonight?” Sal entered the room where Mrs. Dillinwater’s voice could be heard. With the cleaver tucked into his belt, and covered with his shirt, he carried his delivery utensil with the knives and some towels inside into where he heard Mrs. Dillingwater. He was equipped to administer the remedy to a source of his dreadful illness. “Good evening, Mrs. Dillingwater,” said Sal. “Mrs. Steel purchased a lovely duck for you. Here, here in this ‘carry all’ is the gift. Take a look.” Mrs. Dillingwater, cheerfully, approached Sal who had the opened container on the floor for Mrs. Dillingwater to take a look inside. When she bent down with her head over the container to see the bird, Luchisi, with the unbelievable speed and strength of a tornado sliced off Mrs. Dillingwater’s head that fell into the delivery appliance.

Once again, as he accomplished at Mrs. Steel’ place, he hurriedly and over and over again stabbed Mrs. Dillingwater in the breasts and vagina. He wiped his knives as he did his last crime scene and as at the last crime scene, he wrapped up the towels, and before leaving, took all the jewels off of the corpse and those he could find in the bedroom drawers. Again, as he had done once that evening; he buried the head of his victim in the Ocean Beach sand. Now, as he had done twice that night, he performed one more similar crime. He slaughtered Mrs. Drexeli from behind by decapitation while he had her peer into her refrigerator. He penetrated her dead corpse again and again with his butcher knives in her breasts and vagina; this time, he also stabbed his victim’s buttocks time and time again as if it was a pin cushion. As if a radar beam, he headed directly to Mrs. Drexeli’s jewels, filled his pockets with them, and rapidly fled to his vehicle and went off to Ocean Beach for the head burial. Though, he wanted to commit more mayhem that night, he decided it was too late in the evening and to do so would arouse suspicion, so he went to a small bar on Balboa Street.

Salvatore drank a few martinis; the bar tender gave him one, as did a lovely, young and secretively sexy lady that entered the bar right after he did. Taking the drink the blond paid for, he saddled up to where she was sitting sipping her drink that ran through her dulcet, full and sculptured lips tinted with blue cosmetics. “Thanks for the drink,” he said. “Let me buy you one.” That he did, and the lady was grateful. After awhile, they left together. The lady, at the wheel of her car, with Sal in the passenger seat drove down to the Ocean Beach at the end of Lincoln Way. She parked, and seduced him with tacit promises of bliss soon to be out onto the sand very near where he had buried three of the customer's heads that he hated like hell. “Couldn’t we get some love in the car; why out on the sand?” asked Sal.

The blond stripped off her clothes, piece by piece as Sal became more and more arroused. She dropped the garments the sand slowly, one by one, accompanied by the whimpering sounds of a woman wanting a man similar to a jungle cat in heat; she held her blouse in her hand.

“What’s in your hand,” asked Sal. “You’re holding something in with your top. What is it?” Sal approached the woman, only to have her reveal the gun she had been concealing. The blond said, “Did you expect to get by with killing the Heights's widows? After your third murder, I knew it was you who was out and about killing the old ladies.” Continuing the holding of the gun on Sal, she said, “I became aware that you had gone mad, and were seeking revenge on the widows, because they disrespect you so. I am disrespected also; I am the widow’s masseuse, among other positions, but their pay is what makes me happy-money; you know mammon, said the blond.. Now, give me the jewels you stole from the widows. Salvatore, befuddled and dumfounded, knowing everything was out in the open, and knowing he would never get out of jail, took a chance; he lunged at the naked woman in hopes of getting the gun, but the blue eyed, tall Swedish woman fired her gun that wore a silencer; the bullet riddled Sal’s skull. She fired four more times-once, with the pistol pressing against the back of Sal’s head. She dressed, took all of the jewels, and disappeared into the night ocean fog. She went to her room in Pacific Heights where.

After a few hours, there was a knock on the door of her small, but adequate room. A policeman, Detective Vibes, wanted her for questioning about the three murders that occurred in the area that night. The blond woman, Jerry, consented to answer questions in the library of 2459 Broadway where she was residing, and worked as a cook’s helper. No, she didn’t know who committed the crimes, and no she couldn’t imagine who would be a suspect, and again and again, no, no, no she hadn’t a clue to offer Detective Vibes. As the detective was about to leave, a pink miniature poodle, named Princess, wearing a blue bow, pranced into the library mouthing a diamond bracelet that the poodle had discovered under the back seat of Jerry’s car. Following the poodle, who was aptly leading Vibes, back to Jerry’s vehicle, Vibes found the remainder of the jewelry belonging to the slain widows.

Each year, Detective Eugene Vibes sends a Christmas card to The Woman’s Prison in Garnerville, California addressed to Jerry Whipple. Jerry was the masseuse and assistant cook to one of the widows, Mrs. Blankenbock, that Sal had planned on killing. The blond woman, Ms. Whipple, confessed to the stealing of the widows jewelry from Sal, and was forced to confess to the murder of Salvatore Luchisi. Jerry Whipple revealed the other facts she knew about, The Case of the Widows Who Lost Their Heads.