Elwood said, “McClure’s Army squad consisted of a volunteer group of twenty-five elite men who called themselves the ‘Lion Force.’ We rode shotgun with them for six months to ferret out warlords. Jake gave McClure his nickname.”
“Serious?”
“Very.”
“McClure’s kill squad carried out the longest string of atrocities by any one unit in any service branch ever. Murders, mutilations, and rapes were the norm,” Elwood said. “Seeing McClure and his men go into a village and work it over?” he said, “was something else. Pure fear. They just radiated fucking fear. The warlords gave them whatever they wanted, and if they argued or some shit, then the whip came down. Like woe betide the motherfuckers that got in their way.”
“Rumor has it McClure killed over 1,500 unarmed civilians during a sixty-two week stretch,” Jake said. He got a small brown cigar from his top pocket and lit it with a gold lighter shaped like a game board chess king.
“That’s genocide,” Trent said, waiting for the full five-course horror story when Jake’s phone chimed.
While Jake talked on his iPhone, Elwood who had started sweating said, “McClure’s hatred had no limits. I remember a time he rounded up all the young girls in a village; forced ‘em naked with cattle prodders into a makeshift bullpen. The soldiers would take turns raping them. Killing them. Whatever. This went on for fucking weeks. Girls had no roof over their heads, no food, very little water,” he said, motioning to the waitress for another round of drinks. “When a girl finally went berserk,” he continued, “and couldn’t stop screaming, enter McClure, the chief torturer of unarmed civilians.” Elwood mopped his face with a cocktail napkin and continued, “He’d slice off her breasts with a huge K-bar knife to warn the other girls. Then he’d raped her unmercifully. Penetrate her with scalding bottles of water, his fist, his gun, whatever the fuck he could find. Her final moments would be with him fucking her in the dirt with his .45 jammed hard into her temple; have the big organism and pull the trigger. I remember him standing up with his dick hard and slicked with blood; dirt and shit caked all over his body. He’d turn in a slow circle and howl with his arms above his head. Sick murdering fuck.”
The story made Trent’s skin crawl. “Why didn’t you turn him in? Run him up on war crimes against humanity?”
Jake had put down his cell phone. “What Delta Force was doing wasn’t exactly legal; but it was for the greater good of America, getting the terrorists to Guantanamo and all.” He blew evil-smelling cigar smoke and said, “But to turn McClure in would have brought attention to our activities. And we couldn’t have that.”
Chapter 32
“Let you off anywhere special?” Jake said, as he and Trent crawled in the back of the BMW.
“Yes. My bikes back at the Wire Tap lounge.”
“Good enough.”
A few minutes later Jake taped Elwood on the shoulder and pointed to Tenth Street. Elwood turned then pulled the BMW over to the curb. Jake got out on the curb and Trent slid across the seat and levered himself out.
“Trent, your deadline is early Christmas morning,” Jake said, as he got in the front seat. “Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Work a miracle for us all,” Elwood said as he wheeled around the corner.
Trent mounted his bike and drove to the Midtown Police Plaza. He had to convince Priest that a conspiracy existed. He thought about his skirmish with the killers at the Wire Tap Lounge and hoped that his talk with Priest would include less mayhem.
A mocking grin formed on the security guard’s face. “We’ve never had a pirate pass through security,” he said.
“Very funny,” Trent said, handing him a paper bag that contained the mime’s knife. “Is Inspector Priest in?”
“Missed him by twenty minutes.”
“I’m going to leave a message on his desk. Would you make sure he gets this bag in the morning?”
“Aye, Aye, pirate,” the guard said, handing Trent a clipboard with a sign-in sheet on it. Trent printed his name, presented his driver’s license, and the guard issued him a pass. Then he motioned Trent through the electronic scanner.
Trent found Priest’s office and then backtracked to the men’s room. He was ducking inside the door when he caught a glimpse of Butler down the hall waiting on an elevator car.
He turned on the lights and walked to the sink. After splashing cold water on his face and using a wad of paper towels to wipe the makeup away, he noticed a tiny drop of liquid on the counter. Blood!
Then he glanced at the floor and found several more. Butler might have been one of the clowns, he thought, the blood reaffirming his earlier suspicions about the man. Could it be?
Trent pulled out his cell phone and called Priest.
“Inspector Priest speaking.”
“It’s Palmer.” Water dripped from his face. “I know who the Midtown Murderer is.”
“Do you have any hard evidence to start me on my way?”
“No. Only circumstantial.”
“So this is just your theory.”
“It’s just my theory.”
Pause.
He said to Trent, “Meet me at the station in thirty minutes.”
“I’m in your office.”
#
Priest walked into his office and switched on the lights. His tan outfit had knife-edge creases. “Palmer stood me up,” he said angrily.
“I did not,” Trent said, stepping out of the closet.
“Palmer, why did you drag me down here?”
“Someone tried to kill me tonight.”
Priest ignored him. “So, who’s the Midtown Murderer?”
Irritated that he had to fight this battle, Trent said, “Butler is the killer.”
“You are out of your mind.”
Trent recited the conversation he had overheard in the interrogation viewing room and what had happened at the Wire Tap Lounge. “I rushed back here and left the mime’s knife with security. I was opening the door to the Men’s room when I spotted Butler hurrying away.”
“Palmer,” he said, drawing a paper cup of water from a cooler, “the next thing you’re going to tell me is that you stiffed the Salvation Army guy at Target and he’s trying to kill you.”
Trent held out a Kleenex that had a crimson spot in the middle. “I found several drops of blood on the bathroom floor; I left a few drops for you to see.”
Priest thought for a second, then gulped the water. He made a call and had the night duty officer page Butler with instructions to stop by his office. He tossed the crumpled drink cup into his empty wastebasket and said, “Lead the way.”
Trent pushed the rest-room door open. The air smelled fiercely of ammonia, and the tile floor glistened wet under the fluorescent lights. His shoulders slumped. “He came back and cleaned up.”
Priest spun on his loafers and walked out.
“Come back! He scrubbed the floor. I swear. Look, you can see smeary footprints on the tile.”
“Palmer,” he said acidly, “I will—” He stopped in mid-sentence when Butler entered the hallway.
“Inspector Priest,” Butler said, “were you looking for me?”
“Yes.”
Butler turned his head and looked at Trent, his blue eyes turning to slits, like that of a venomous snake. He said, “Looks like Palmer went to a party and got drunk; I bet he’s here to report a flying saucer.”
“You know why I’m here,” Trent said, trying to avoid the man’s stare.
“What was that, Palmer?”
“You’re crooked, Butler, and I’m going to prove it.”
“That’s enough, Palmer,” Priest said. To Butler he said, “Where were you tonight, Assistant Chief?”
“Rikki and I attended a fund-raising dinner with Chief Clay and his wife at the Mayor’s estate,” Butler said, holding his arms out and slapping his palms together as if he were crashing two cymbals. “I dropped Rikki at home then stopped by to pick up a file. How come?”<
br />
“It’s not important.”
“You have a spot of blood on your cuff,” Trent said in a confident voice.
“Just finished shaving,” Butler said, patting his face with his palms. “Must have cut my chin and rubbed it.”
“Did you use this bathroom?” Trent asked.
“No.”
“Goodnight, sir,” Priest said.
“Is that all you needed, Inspector?” he asked, clapping Trent hard on the shoulder.
“Yes.”
“See you tomorrow,” Butler said. Then he snickered at Trent and turned.
When Butler ducked into his office, Priest glared at Trent. “Palmer, forget railroading your ass out of Atlanta. I plan to bury you so goddamn deep you’ll never see the light of day.”
“Priest, I swear—”
“Get out of here!”
Trent waited in the hall until Priest was gone. He hung his head. Like a cat that has found himself at the top of a tall tree and knows not how he got there, he had absolutely no idea how to escape safely.
He took a deep breath and dialed Garcia’s cell phone. Relieved to hear his voice, he walked toward the stairwell for privacy. “It’s Palmer. Can we have a quick word?”
“I’ve been waiting for your call,” Garcia whispered angrily. “Who murdered Winston?”
“Hell if I know,” Trent said, his voice taut and high pitched. “I didn’t shoot him!”
“Get your voice down, Palmer. Nobody said you did. But you can thank Winston for saving your life. I had him stop by your apartment to check on you; he surprised the intruders and paid with his life.”
How much more can I take? Trent thought, suppressing an urge to open the window and jump out. He shrugged some of the tension from his shoulders and said, “Any idea who’s trying to kill me?”
“Rumor has it that a number of rogue elements are searching for an object. Its ownership is in dispute. Everyone assumes you have it since you knifed the Latino.”
“Anything else?”
“Could be the body you dug up.”
“Know who the victim was?” Trent asked tiredly.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Trent hesitated a second before betraying Clay and joining forces with Garcia. This is for Chloe, he reminded himself. “My money says Mike Butler is your snitch at the Midtown Police Plaza.”
“Give me a bit more to chew on.”
Trent explained the conversation he overheard in the interrogation room, the fight with the clowns, and finding the blood in the bathroom.
“Sounds promising. So who’s the mole in my organization?”
“I’m still looking.”
“Keep searching for the mole. Prove to me that you’re resourceful, and I might have a use for you-that is, assuming you’re still alive. I’ll extend your deadline; you have until early Christmas morning to find him.”
Gonna be some Christmas, Trent thought to himself grimly. “Thanks for having Utah save my bacon at the Wire Tap Lounge,” he said, changing the subject.
Silence.
“Mr. Garcia, are you still there?”
“Christmas morning, Palmer. Produce or die.”
Chapter 33
Trent was walking down the hall toward the elevator when the light percussion of rock music reached his eardrums. It was an old Pink Floyd song about money. He slowed and realized the music was coming from McClure’s office. When a shadow passed across a strip of light under the door, Trent leaned close and listened. McClure was talking on the phone.
“What do you mean a temporary setback? I don’t care if the bottom fell out of the market. You dumped bad trades in my account; I didn’t give you that order. I want my money back, or else!”
Even the psycho-killer rotten cop has problems, Trent thought, hurrying along.
He stopped at the night duty officer’s desk on his way to the parking lot. The man was a slender young Hispanic with curly hair slicked back.
“Deputy, I need to ask you a question.”
He glanced at Trent’s pirate outfit, shook his head, and resumed reading his Atlanta Police Department procedures handbook.
Trent fished a twenty out of his wallet and held it below the edge of the desk. The deputy looked the other way.
Trent dropped the Atlanta Falcons tickets and the twenty on his book. “One question.”
The deputy chewed on his lower lip, then used the tickets and cash to mark his place in the book. “What?”
“Does the cleaning crew work twenty/four seven?” he asked, catching a glimpse of Radcliff in uniform exiting a sidedoor.
“No. They finish at eight in the evening and come back at seven in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
Trent parked his bike outside his apartment. Need to unwind, he thought. Have a drink after that terrifying encounter with the clowns. He donned his heavy coat and walked six blocks through a gentle snowfall, scarcely noticing the cold, to a German restaurant and bar on the corner of Monroe and Fourteenth Street.
Surprised that they had an interior courtyard surrounded by a privacy fence, he took a table beside a tall, outdoor patio heater strung with brightly-colored Christmas lights. He was three-quarters through an icy-cold lager when a hardfaced man with wavy blond hair and wearing a long leather coat over his suit strolled in. Hardface scanned the courtyard. He spotted Trent and absently moved his leather coat aside so Trent could see the revolver tucked into his waistband. Then he took a seat in the corner.
Trent was waiting for the other shoe to drop when Radcliff materialized through a door in the fence. He wore a mechanic’s coveralls and had a cap pulled low over his forehead; he nodded at hardface then took a seat across from Trent.
“I didn’t think you were a ‘beer garden’ type of guy,” Radcliff said, shifting his eyes left and right. The snow had stopped and the skyscrapers were hard and clear against the dark sky.
Trent could see the outline of Radcliff’s police uniform and a gun in a shoulder holster under the overalls. To the bartender, Trent figured they looked like a couple of old buddies meeting up after work.
“A quiet spot after a hectic Christmas party,” Trent said.
“Too quiet. A fellow could stay out here after closing time and no one would be the wiser.”
“Sure, but these folks might remember someone,” Trent said, not believing himself as he turned his gaze on the only other couple, a grossly muscled black man showing off his leopardskin bikini underwear to a brunette in a miniskirt who obviously was not a woman.
“I see what you mean,” Radcliff said, glancing around. He pointed at Trent’s near-empty beer. “I’ll get these; what are you drinking?”
“Heineken.”
Radcliff whistled over his shoulder and held up two fat fingers. The bartender set down two pints and withdrew.
“So, do you still think Midtown is a friendly little haunt?” Radcliff asked.
Trent took a tense swallow of beer. “It’s OK until after dark. Then the bankrupt circus comes out and it takes on a whole new color.”
Radcliff lighted a cigarette and flicked ash in a heated pond brimming with orange and gold koi fish. “Heard about a fight at the Wire Tap Lounge; was that you?”
“Yes.” Trent sipped hard at his beer and tried to read Radcliff’s expression.
“You must have walked down then, right?”
“I did.”
Radcliff sucked on his cigarette and nodded gravely. “Better let me drive you home. Lotta traffic on Monroe; I wouldn’t want you to have an accident.”
“Nah, I might take a taxi,” Trent said, finishing his beer. He wondered if he would be around to take his bike in for service on Monday morning.
Radcliff finished his pint and put the glass down. “C’mon, Palmer, I’ll drive you.”
“That would be out of your way,” Trent said. “Why don’t we just stay here for a while?” He was getting more scared by the minute. “We can talk about the old times.”
“Yes.”
Radcliff dropped a twenty on the table. “I figure with you being new to the big city, you probably don’t have many friends to look out for you during the hard times. Know what I mean?” He nodded at hardface and stood.
“I’m getting the picture,” Trent said with forced cheerfulness. Then he followed Radcliff to his squad car.
Trent crawled onto the plastic bench, and Radcliff motored slowly up Monroe toward Tenth Street.
“Tell me about Butler,” Trent said, glancing in the rearview mirror. Two car lengths back, Hardface was keeping the same distance, slowing when Radcliff slowed, and putting on the speed when Radcliff got a straight stretch.
Radcliff tilted his head back and fired a cigarette with his gold-plated lighter; his eyes looked like two smoky bullet holes in the flame. “Butler’s a snake in the grass,” he said, slewing to a stop by the curb. His friend pulled in behind him.
“That right?”
“Yeah. He’s turned the department up-side down; policy changes, cut-backs, forced overtime-you name it.”
Trent realized he had no way of opening the passenger door. “Well, thanks for the lift.”
Radcliff sat quietly for a moment then said, “Butler transferred to Atlanta from the Athens PD.”
Trent said nothing. The sleet had returned; crooked threads of slush slowly worked their way down the windshield.
Radcliff puffed sedately on his cigarette and spoke through the smoke. “Well, that was ten years ago. Six weeks before Butler resigned from the Athens PD a young woman went missing in Athens; her car was found on a secluded, abandoned interstate off-ramp. A week passed before someone got smart and looked over the guardrail. Her body was lying in a thicket.”
“Who killed her?”
Radcliff exhaled loudly. “The murderer was never caught. The public became increasingly suspicious of the police agency’s competence, so they hastily concocted a story about a nonexistent hitchhiker.”
The Midtown Murderer Page 11
