The Midtown Murderer

by David Carlisle

  “Yes, sir,” the ME said. He had a toothy Tom Cruise grin and a stethoscope hanging around his neck; he wore blue latex surgeon’s gloves. A manila envelope was tucked under his arm.

  “Palmer, I’ll need you to make a formal statement,” Priest said, taking Maya’s hand in his as they turned toward the reporters.

  Trent nodded at the tarp and said to the ME, “Any idea who it is?”

  “Can’t tell,” said the man said.

  Trent palmed a hundred-dollar bill into the man’s hand.

  The ME cleared his throat and said, “Under that tarp is a very dead neighborhood junkie; guy had a dozen priors in Atlanta. Burglary, assault, distribution, you name it.”

  “What killed him?”

  The ME held out a piece of metal in his hand. It was shaped like a bent quarter that had been ground around the edges. “He had a change of heart, as in it quit beating. At least six hollow-point rounds to the chest. Happened an hour ago.”

  “Nine-millimeter?”

  “Yep.”

  “Those bullets crack. Any witnesses?”

  “None so far. Several people heard motorcycle engines revving and saw bikers drive off. The sounds could have masked the shots.”

  “Damn brave. What is it, four blocks to the Midtown Police Plaza?”

  “You can jump on the interstate from that intersection,” the ME said, nodding toward Tenth and Juniper. “A messy corpse,” he said, handing Trent a photograph.

  Trent tapped the photo with his fingernail. “Tight pattern with the bullets.”

  “It’s damn cold out here,” the ME said, tugging his earlobe. “He was shot point-blank.”

  Trent’s eyes were riveted to the chilling photo. There was a terrible gapping hole in the victim’s breastbone, and the torso was saturated with dark blood. On the shoulder floated a gruesome tattoo of Hansel and Gretel holding hands with Saddam Hussein and bin Laden. They were dancing in a circle, and Satan was in the middle butchering a baby with a long knife. In Gothic script was the word: “Apostles.”

  “Gang sign?”

  The ME laughed. “What do you think?”

  Trent nodded. “Anything in his pockets?”

  The ME looked around, then opened the envelope. “This is it.”

  Trent glanced at a bus ticket, a cell phone case, some small change, and a pack of cigarettes.

  “Phone?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “It’s organized crime; an assassination. A hit man got him.”

  “But why here?”

  “A park like this is not bad.”

  “He might have been seen by the workers.”

  “Atlanta city workers?” the ME asked with a laugh. “In December? When did you last see them filing in any potholes? Those guys hurry off to home before lunch.”

  Trent ignored the ME’s levity. “Anything else?”

  The ME hesitated. Trent handed him another bill.

  “There was a note pinned to body,” he said, unfolding a small sheet of blood-stained paper that read: WE HAVE THE CHILD. CLAY WILL DIE. TRIPLE.

  #

  Priest ushered Trent under a spreading oak where Butler was waiting for them. He wore a black leather trench coat and his shoes were wet with dirty snow. The wind blew cold and wintery around them, dimpling the water on Lake Clara Meer. The willows and flooded cypress, some still in leaf, whipped in the wind.

  “The ME autopsied the thugs you shot,” Butler said scornfully. “Chest hits with the rounds striking the heart and severing the spine; a surgeon couldn’t have done a better job.” Before Trent could answer, Butler gripped him by the shoulders. “It smells like a contract killing.”

  “Don’t shout Butler,” Trent said, staring at the badge hanging from a gold chain around his neck. “I’m not deaf.”

  “He’s a hit man, Priest,” Butler said, pushing Trent away. “You can quote me on that.”

  “I’ll explain how wrong you’ve got it to a Board of Inquiry,” Trent said. “They’ll find I’m telling the truth.”

  Perhaps Priest felt they were being too combative, for he said, “So you met Maya in the park. Is that right?”

  “It all began when I found her searching for her daughter.” Trent described the events, including Maya’s account of leaving Chloe to play on the swings while she went to the bathroom.

  “It could be a kidnapping,” Priest said, his eyes cutting on Butler.

  “Perhaps Triple killed the creep,” Trent suggested. “And Chloe witnessed it. Then he abducted her.”

  “Don’t peddle any of your half-baked theories to us,” Butler said, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

  “Here’s one to think about,” Trent said. “You’re trying hard to keep this gang war quiet. If you go public, you think it’s going to cause widespread panic and cause problems for the police force and make the job of those investigating these crimes more difficult. You want to solve these issues on the QT, don’t you?”

  Priest was smiling, and perhaps there was some margin of admiration for Trent’s astute observations.

  “We are very concerned about the safety of the citizens in Atlanta; they are our primary focus,” Butler said, looking at the clouds as if considering escape. There was a crackle of thunder and he turned toward the sidewalk.

  Trent said casually, “I’d beef up Clay’s personal security.”

  “Already done,” Priest said.

  When Butler reached his car, he called to Trent.

  “Hey, Palmer.”

  Trent faced him with a defiant pose.

  “There will be an inquest into last night’s shootings,” he said. “And I’m writing the final report.”

  The wind gusted and a pear-shaped Christmas ornament dropped from a lamp post above his car and bounced off the hood with a loud bang. He stiffened at the sound, then relaxed and said, “Rest assured that I will put all of the pieces of this puzzle together.”

  Before Trent could fish up a response, Butler slid into his car and drove away.

  Chapter 12

  Trent was watching Butler drive off when Priest’s walkie-talkie cracked. “Radcliff here. A search of the park and Botanical Gardens has been completed. The child has not surfaced.”

  “Maya,” Priest said gently, “I need you to look at a photo of the victim’s face. If you recognized him, and Chloe was abducted, perhaps we could better focus our search for her.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” she said anxiously.

  He wrapped his big arm around her shoulder. “This is for Chloe; all you have to do is look at the picture. I’ll be right beside you.”

  The ME handed her a picture.

  “It’s Jack!” she cried in a horror-stricken voice. “My ex-boyfriend.” Her knees gave out, and Trent scooped her up.

  While Priest talked on his radio, Trent sat on a bench next to Maya and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. The wind had dropped and the trees were still. From under the dark clouds, long slanting rays of the sun edged the skyscrapers with golden light, leaving the park in a cold gray shadow. Trent turned his face to the light to capture its meager warmth.

  “Jack made terrible choices,” she said sadly, wiping her tearstained face with the backs of her hands. “He was asking to be killed when he went to work for those bikers.”

  “How did you meet Jack?”

  “When I moved to Atlanta,” she said in a soft voice. “I’d taken my dog to Dr. Lynn’s animal clinic; he worked there part-time cleaning kennels and such.”

  “Why Jack?”

  “You have to understand things,” she said in an exasperated tone. “I grew up in a country town so small it didn’t make the maps. I had Chloe when I was sixteen. The father didn’t want her, and my parents hated me for it. What I wanted was to never go back.”

  “So you moved to Atlanta.”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened then?”

  “In the beginning Jack was fu
n to be with. He had charisma. And cash. So I was his live-in girlfriend.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jack had a nose for cocaine. But it didn’t like him back. He owed everybody. Last week a huge, hideous man came to the apartment to collect. Some kind of loan shark, Jack said. The man said that he’d peddle Chloe like a used car if Jack didn’t pay. But Jack was scared for himself, not us. That’s when he applied for membership with the Apostles; they admitted him, but to get their protection he had to deliver meth to Atlanta nightclubs.”

  “Why were you in the park?”

  “It was past time to get out of that relationship. And I was terrified that man would come back and make good on his word,” she said, surrendering to sobs and dabbing her watery eyes with a shredded Kleenex.

  Trent took her hand and squeezed it gently, feeling a ponderous weight of responsibility to find Chloe.

  Priest waved Trent over. “Maya will be staying with our protective services,” he said, handing Trent a card. “You can reach her at that number. And don’t forget that statement.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  #

  Trent was walking to his apartment when he saw Radcliff in his driveway leaning against his patrol car. The setting sun had gouged ragged holes through the overcast, and shiny gold pins of light spilled onto the frozen ground.

  “How about an Irish coffee?” Radcliff asked as they shook hands.

  “Coffee is fine, but hold the Irish.”

  Radcliff poured Trent a steaming cup from a stainless steel thermos. He nodded at Trent’s puffy cheek and said, “What happened?”

  Trent sipped his coffee. “Slipped on the ice.”

  “You say so,” Radcliff said doubtfully, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a pint of Baileys. He unscrewed the cap with one thumb and poured a slug into his coffee. “So what went on in the park with Priest and Butler?”

  “Butler thinks I’m a freelance triggerman.” There was smoke rising from the chimneys in the neighborhood. The cold had reddened his hands.

  “He thinks you’re operating at arm’s length for one of the cartels,” Radcliff said with an edge of sarcasm.

  Trent blew on his fingers to restore circulation and said, “Well, I’m not; and it shouldn’t be difficult to check out.”

  Radcliff sprayed his mouth with breath freshener and said, “I believe you. What else did they talk about?”

  “Maya and her daughter. Then they hashed out the park murderer.”

  Radcliff pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, blowing the first puff out in a thin jet. “I think Triple left that body in the park as a warning. Perhaps to frighten someone with an office around here.”

  “That murder might not be related to the drug war. You need to make an arrest first.”

  “Either way, it’s a nasty business,” Radcliff said.

  “I agree. So where do the Apostles hang out?” Trent was thinking that if they didn’t kidnap Chloe, then they might have information about her he could trade for.

  “The Whiskey A-Go-Go Lounge is their private clubhouse,” Radcliff said. “It’s in a seedy neighborhood out in Lawrenceville; the cops try to avoid the place. Don’t go snooping around without a buddy.”

  In a tone of gloom Trent said, “Couldn’t be too bad in the daytime.”

  “Your call, but it could be bad for your health. The Apostles kill. Keep that in mind.”

  “I just want to find Chloe.”

  “So do I.”

  As Radcliff sped off, Trent spotted Rikki and her father walking into the park. He was speaking to the media and she was chatting with an officer, pausing occasionally to brush her hair back from her eyes. She was long and lanky in a plaid skirt and a sweater top, with an easy grace and a smile to match.

  God, how I miss being with a woman like that, Trent thought, breaking from his reverie when someone grabbed him from behind and someone else swung a baseball bat hard into his stomach. Then they dragged his doubled-over body to the curb and dropped him in the trunk of a car and shut the lid. He heard the driver’s and passenger’s doors shut as the car pulled away from the curb.

  Chapter 13

  After thirty minutes of driving, Trent heard the screeching sound of a commercial aircraft passing low overhead. Atlanta Hartsfield International, he thought as the car came to a stop. He heard a chain rattling and a gate opening. Then they drove on for a few minutes and stopped again.

  Trent was rolled in a ball, blinking up when the trunk popped open. “I’m Jake,” a man said. “This is Elwood. Sorry about the ride.” Both men wore black wraparound sunglasses and black suits with starched white shirts and black ties and black shoes.

  It was sunny out, and in the distance Trent could see two airliners climbing side by side off parallel runways into the cloudless sky. They were in the middle of a vast airport container terminal with no one in sight except themselves and thousands of stacked containers the size of SUV’s.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Jake said.

  Trent took his hand and let him help him out. A gust of cold wind stung his face as he unfolded into the sun.

  The serious-faced men stood still. Jake was short and had shoulders that could block a doorway and a gnarled nose; his blond hair stood up like summer grass. Elwood was tall and had an eagle-eyed face; he sported a high-and-tight fade, distinctive of the corps. The men were wary for a moment, but relaxed as soon as they saw Trent was not armed and he did not act like a maniac.

  “Midtown says you killed a member of the Latin Kings,” Jake said, moving his jacket enough to let Trent see his weapon.

  They were standing in a neat triangle by the trunk of the car. Trent was trying to figure out if they were Federal agents and who was in charge. Maybe neither of them. Maybe they were equals. “It’s public record; I acted in self defense.”

  “Mind telling us what you took from the body?”

  “Can I see some identification?” Trent asked.

  Jake pushed his wraparounds up his nose. “I don’t think so. No.”

  “You’re not the law.”

  “Most occasions we’re better than the law,” Elwood said, reaching in his coat and pulling a pearl-handled Colt .45 from a shoulder rig; then he walked around the containers shooting seagulls.

  CRACK!

  “McClure do that to you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your face. Heard it was McClure.”

  CRACK!

  “It was McClure; you know him?”

  CRACK!

  Jake never looked at Trent, but stared in Elwood’s direction, his eyes hidden by his wraparounds. “We know McClure,” he said, twisting a large gold ring on his index finger with some intricate engraving on its crest. “He’s a mean motherfucker. No doubt.”

  Elwood was out of sight, but every time he shot a seagull, his gun made a firm crack that rippled between the containers; he’d burned through three or four clips and didn’t seem to be getting tired.

  “We know ‘em all at Midtown,” Jake said. “They are the most corrupt, fucked-up cops we’ve ever met.”

  “Your point?”

  CRACK!

  “Point is this: The guy you knifed had something that’s important to us; we think you took it.”

  “You can search my apartment; pry up the floorboards if you want.”

  CRACK!

  “Already did that. Where did you stash it?”

  “Didn’t take anything.”

  CRACK!

  Elwood had returned. He ejected the clip and felt around in his pocket. Not finding what he wanted, he walked back toward the car. Jake reached in the backseat, found a box and tossed it to Elwood. It was filled with loaded clips. Elwood inserted a fresh clip and went back to work.

  CRACK!

  “You didn’t give it to the Midtown cops?”

  CRACK!

  “I did not take anything from the crime scene or give anything to the Midtown cops.”

  Jake’s face was blank
when he looked at Trent. Trent knew the man was suspicious and he was getting more scared by the minute. “I don’t know how I can help.”

  “Oh, you’re gonna help. Or you might end up in one of these containers on a one-way trip.”

  “I see.”

  Trent felt the still-warm barrel of Elwood’s gun against the base of his skull. “Give it to us you backstabbing piece of shit! Or we’re gonna kill you! You took it and it’s ours! I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

  “Hey! Hey! Hey!” Jake screamed, pulling Elwood’s gun arm away from Trent’s skull. “You keep your eyes out; I’ll deal with this.”

  Elwood snapped out of it. Jake let loose of his arm and Elwood turned for the car.

  “It’s Trent, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Trent, when we didn’t get what we needed from Midtown, we decided to take a peek at McClure and see what he’s up to; an’ what he was up to was you; so now you’re important to us.”

  “I see.”

  “The thing is, we need that object. McClure told you he’d do something worse than beat the shit out of you if he doesn’t get it, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But you get to him; he’ll just leave you alone, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, fuck that. I guarantee you that fucker’s gonna kill you whether he gets the object or not.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “So, Elwood and I, this is the deal with us; we don’t get the object you’re gonna end up in a container deader than shit. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “But get us that object, not only are we gonna leave you breathing, but we’re gonna get you resituated in a nice sunny clime where no one will ever find you. New identity and plenty of dough to get you started; a new life. Sounds sweet, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Know why we’re going to do all that for you?” Elwood asked, digging in the trunk and coming up with three ice-cold bottles of Heineken.

  “I’m listening.”

  “’Cause in addition to getting us the object, you’re gonna set up McClure and the rest of his fucking freak show. Then you kill ‘em an’ they will never be trouble for you or anyone else ever again.”