The Midtown Murderer

by David Carlisle

  McClure seemed to contemplate his reply. After a moment his response to Trent was: “How very clever of you; and what do you expect to find?”

  “Palmer’s trying to dig up dirt. He thinks he’s found the key to a deeply buried department secret.”

  The corner of McClure’s lips twitched nervously. “My car’s back this way,” he said, jabbing a thumb toward the tree line. “Give me directions; I’ll meet you there.”

  Trent did, and McClure glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex. “See you in forty minutes.”

  #

  It was late afternoon when Priest and Trent reached the second site. Very low on the horizon a blood-red splinter of sun spread its gore across the clouds and trees in an ever darkening overcast.

  Priest slewed to a stop at the end of a narrow road that became a trail. “The dirt looks way too soft,” he said. “We’ll have to hike the rest of it.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They passed several hostile signs nailed to posts: No Trespassing. Private Property. Keep out.

  They walked side-by-side in silence. The sky was hard and clear. They left footprints in the powdery snow. It was eye-watering cold, and it was forecast to get even colder.

  Trent had been debating if he should approach anyone at the Midtown Police Plaza regarding McClure’s duplicity. He figured Priest might be the only one he could trust; he probed gently and said, “I saw McClure on TV last week; an action reporter was riding a beat with him.”

  “That’s McClure. He’s the department’s de-facto PR guy.”

  “At first I wasn’t sure if he was a cop or not,” Trent said, stepping over a tree root. “He had on an expensive silk suit.”

  Priest chuckled. “That guy never misses a photo opportunity or a chance to piggyback on the agencies success.”

  “I figure him for an action guy,” Trent said, thinking back to the phone conversation he’d overheard at the Midtown Police Plaza. “Someone who lives a lavish lifestyle; wheels and deals in stocks.”

  Priest glanced at Trent. “You’ve done your homework. The rumor mill says he’s heavily into day trading; something about buying and selling stock on margins.”

  Trent nodded and he wondered again if McClure had lost his shirt. And he sure liked to wear expensive shirts. He said, “On the way back to town I want to talk to you about McClure.”

  Priest eyed him and said, “More speculation?”

  “Straight from the horse’s mouth. Beyond any doubt.”

  “OK,” Priest said. “I’ll hear you out.”

  They stopped in front of a spray-painted sign on a sheet of plywood that was resting against a tree. It read: DANGER THIS BUILDING IS CONDEMNED DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED DEMOLITION WILL COMMENCE ON DECEMBER FIFTEENTH STAY OUT!

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Those deep-rutted wheel tracks we passed on the way in were frozen solid,” Priest said. “I’d say the wrecker couldn’t get past them.”

  “Probably so.”

  Priest’s cell phone chirped, and he turned to answer it. Trent was standing next to the boarded-up pumping station when Priest caught up with him.

  Trent lighted a cigarette. “Anything important?”

  “It was McClure. He couldn’t find the side road to turn off on. Said that as long as I felt safe with you he wouldn’t call in air support.”

  Trent pointed at the structure.

  Priest gazed at the concrete walls. “Riddled with bullets,” he said in a rush, running his fingertips across the deeply grooved and scared block. He put a hand on the wall as if to steady himself.

  “You OK?”

  “Yes,” Priest said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “The surprises keep coming.”

  Trent stood with his back to the building and studied the heavy growth of trees and undergrowth at the edge of the firefight. “Follow me to those trees.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “Shots were fired out the window,” Trent said, concentrating on the scared tree trunks.

  “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Priest said softly.

  Trent held up a small branch. “Broken by a bullet.”

  Then he pointed in the distance at a newly-finished aerial. “It’s a cell phone tower,” he said, handing Priest Butler’s aerial reconnaissance photo that showed the building and the partially constructed antenna.

  Priest’s face seemed flushed from the stress of this new revelation.

  The sun bled through the trees and Trent spied something glittery on the ground. He pointed and Priest knelt and retrieved several spent shell casings from the drooping grass.

  “Let me guess,” Trent said, turning toward the building. “Ejected from a high-powered rifle.”

  “Yes.”

  Trent yanked on the door. It yielded, but shrieked on rusty hinges, the sound sending a tomcat slinking into the trees. He gazed into a medium size room with concrete-block walls and a low roof. There were fat old pipes coming up through the floor attached to hydraulic equipment that had once boosted water out of the ground for irrigation. There was grit on the floor and what appeared to be blotches of dried blood. The blotches were also on the scaly pipes and equipment and walls. Testing the air, he thought the interior smelled of mildew and a trace of gunpowder.

  Trent pried a mushroomed slug from a heavy-duty electrical panel with his penknife and tossed it to Priest. “The GID team was murdered here and their bodies were transported to the other site,” he said, mashing out his cigarette on the floor with the heel of his tennis shoe. “The fire was so fierce that forensics couldn’t determine how many bodies there were or if they had been shot.

  “But only three officers were toasted. I think Captain Ramsey was murdered separately, and that means it was a personal matter. My money says McClure dug up her body.”

  Priest toed the dirty concrete. “It’s too early to speculate.”

  Trent waved his hand at the bullet-riddled walls. Pretending patience he said, “Priest, you have strong, physical evidence; find the motive and you’ll find the killer.”

  Priest fished his cell phone from his coat pocket and tried to make a call. “Battery went flat.”

  “Mine’s at home,” Trent said, with a sudden violent shiver.

  “Time to head back, Palmer.”

  Trent walked sedately on the narrow path. Finding he was alone, he felt exposed and threatened. Where’s Priest? Probably stopped to pee. A frightful thought occurred to him and he spun around.

  Priest stood several yards back; he held his pistol two-handed, aimed on the center of Trent’s torso. “Turn around and put your hands above your head.”

  Chapter 42

  A chill raced up Trent’s spine. “Ah, Jesus, Priest.”

  Priest’s tone was clipped and professional. “You’re the number-one suspect; the first order of business is that I take you in. An investigative board will get to the bottom of this. Determine if you’re innocent or not.”

  Trent was incensed. “You think I set this up?”

  “That’s not for me to decide,” Priest said, tossing Trent a pair of nickel-steel handcuffs. “Put ’em on.”

  “You’re one of the killers, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  Trent clicked the cuff on his right wrist. “At least let me keep my hands in front.”

  “Contrary to procedure, but that’s OK. Now ratchet that cuff down tight and get the second one on.” Trent complied and Priest opened the passenger door for him.

  Trent lowered himself onto the bench seat. “Now what?”

  Priest kept his gun pointed at Trent’s ribs. “Fasten that seatbelt. I’ll call Clay when we stop for gas.”

  “You trust him?”

  “God help us if we can’t.”

  Trent stared out the window toward the forest, but it was already lost in a heavy band of darkness. Then he remembered what he had told Radcliff in his apartment about not caring. It wasn’t exactly true. T
here were days when he hungered for his idyllic life of old. His job as a police officer; the feeling of accomplishment he got from being the best officer he could. And the comradely. Such stabilizing forces in his life. But more than anything there was Sylvia. And the expectation of a long and happy life with her.

  But there wouldn’t be any more Sylvia. Or police work. Have to get rid of this depression, he thought. How? Perhaps if I meet the right woman. Or find the Way. But first I gotta get the fuck out of Atlanta, he was thinking when Priest stopped at a run-down convenience store/gas station on the way back to the interstate.

  “Stay put, Palmer. I’ll start the pump and make a few calls.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Trent said, sinking into the seat and thinking how isolated the station was.

  Priest filled the tank, fetched something out of the trunk, and then walked to the store. He pushed open the bi-fold door to a phone booth and tried to make a call; then he dropped the phone and ducked inside the building.

  Trent was marveling at a collection of weather-beaten rocking chairs clustered around the front porch of the store. He was thinking he was trapped in a Norman Rockwell painting when he heard car tires crunch on the gravel driveway behind him.

  He twisted the rearview mirror so he could see better. The streetlight shone on a gold-colored sedan directly behind Priest’s car. The wheelman had curly salt-and-pepper hair and wore tortoise-shell glasses. His passenger was combing his sandy-colored hair back. When Trent got a good look at them, a chilling sense of recognition flashed through his mind: The clowns!

  The wheelman hurried out of the car. Nursing a pump-action shotgun, he moved determinedly toward the station.

  The passenger racing toward Trent gripped a Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum in both hands. “Hands on the dash,” he snarled. His breath left a white vapor on the cold air.

  Trent raised his handcuffed wrists.

  The man rested his elbows on the door and casually pointed the barrel at Trent’s chest. He wore latex gloves and his wraparounds sat crooked on his face. “Trent Palmer,” he said coldly, “the cat with nine lives.” Then he added, “Too bad all of them are used up.”

  “You Bubbles or Flowers?”

  “Officer Dana.”

  “You’re a prick with or without your water balloons.”

  “Now, now, Palmer, that’s no way to speak to an officer of the law. You behave and I’ll make your death as painless as possible.”

  “You and Butler will burn in hell.”

  “Out of the car,” he said, pointing his gun at Trent’s face. “Hands on the hood; now spread your legs.”

  Dana jammed the gun behind his ear and patted him down skillfully with his free hand. “Stay put,” he said impatiently.

  “What’s it all about?” Trent asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  “A financial arrangement,” Dana said, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “One more payoff and I’ll be drinking Mai Tais in the French Polynesia for the rest of my days.”

  “Let Chloe go.”

  “Don’t know what—”

  The door to the convenience store opened and Roe gave Dana a straight-arm wave.

  Dana grabbed Trent’s upper arm and spun him around. “You run; I’ll waste you now.”

  “Someone might stop for gas.”

  “One thing at a time,” he said, flicking his eyes left and right. “Get moving.”

  Roe held the door open and Dana pushed Trent down onto the dirty wooden floor. Roe scanned the parking lot and said, “Take Priest’s keys and move both cars around back; put out the Closed sign when you’re done and lock the door.”

  Dana stared at a pool of fresh blood that had rounded the corner of the counter and soaked into a frayed carpet. “Where’s the owner?” he asked, fixing Roe with a conspirator’s grin.

  “Dead,” Roe said savagely. A Winston dangled from the corner of his lips and smoke curled around his ear. He rested his shotgun against a red and white popcorn machine. “Don’t worry, there’s no closed-circuit TV. Palmer’s gonna make it look like a robbery gone bad. Now hurry up.”

  “Sure, boss,” Dana said, spitting a stream of chewing tobacco. “On my way.”

  Trent heard groaning and his eyes fell to Priest. He was bound with duct tape to a folding chair; his head hung down. Blood streaked his forehead.

  “You’re gonna kill Priest,” Roe said, pointing a pistol at Trent. “When the cops find the suicide note I wrote for you, everyone will think you went postal.”

  “Why do this?”

  “There are forces at play here,” he said with a shrug. “Conspiracies and schemes so twisted they make the Kennedy hit look like a fairy tale.” Roe slapped Trent open-handed. “Bottom line, you’re dispensable.”

  Trent immediately shot his handcuffed fists at Roe’s face. The punch was a good one and knocked off his glasses; he fell on his butt on the floor and his pistol discharged. The bullet shattered the glass door of a tall drink cooler.

  Roe scrambled to his feet and wiped blood from his nose. Then he backed Trent up against the lottery stand and jammed the still-warm barrel into his mouth. Trent could taste oil and warm metal. It’s over, he thought. The last sound you’ll hear is the gunblast . . .

  “I’m going to kill you,” Roe whispered wetly in his face. “And if you don’t shoot Priest, I’ll kill Rikki.”

  A cowbell tinkled and Trent glanced at the door. Dana scanned stealthily out the window. Then he locked the door. “What was that, boss?” he asked, looking at Roe’s bloody nose. He glared at Trent. “Time to end this shit. Get the fuck outta here!”

  “Agreed,” he said, jamming his gun into Trent’s ear. “It’s bottom-line time, Palmer.”

  “Here ‘ya go, Palmer,” Dana said, handing him a gun. “Keep the barrel pointed at Priest or Roe’s gonna blast ‘ya.”

  Trent was slack-jawed.

  “Do it, Palmer!” Roe screamed. “Or Rikki dies!”

  Priest’s head snapped up and he raged at Trent. “You’re not man enough to pull the trigger!”

  “Shoot him,” cried Roe, waving wildly with his pistol.

  “Now!” Priest roared. “Right here,” he yelled, nodding at his chest. “Do it!”

  Dana’s lips curled back cruelly. “Pull the trigger!”

  Trent locked eyes with Priest, and the pistol roared in his hands. Priest went over backwards, knocking down a stand of Little Debbie Cup Cakes and Twinkies.

  Smoke curled from the barrel, and the pistol slipped from Trent’s hands. When the reverberating gunblast faded, Trent slumped to his knees. His shoulders sagged and he bowed his head.

  Chapter 43

  “Stupid prick,” Roe exhaled, picking up the pistol with a paper towel. “I should kill you now; but we need you for one more job.”

  Roe turned to Dana. “Smash the cash register,” he said. “Then we’ll haul ass.”

  “OK—”

  The second gunshot was a short crack. Dana lurched forward with a strangled cry as a red streamer of blood burst from his back. Roe dove for cover behind a crate stacked with cases of Miller Highlife.

  Trent grabbed Priest by the shoulder and dragged him behind an old-fashioned metal bodied drink cooler.

  “My gun,” he moaned, his pant leg drawn back enough for Trent to see the ankle holster that he had drawn the gun from.

  Trent knelt and stared in amazement at the bullet-proof vest that had saved Priest’s life. “I prayed you had it on.”

  “Hurry, Palmer,” he wheezed. “The gun . . . Oh God; ribs broken . . .”

  Gotta get the big man out of here, Trent thought, gripping the concealable nine-millimeter Beretta with his cuffed hands. He raced in a crouch around the corner of the drink cooler. Dana was crawling toward the checkout counter. Trent shot him in the thigh; his feet kicked wildly and his hands clawed at the floor.

  Trent leaped behind the drink cooler and covered Priest, knowing what would come next.

  Roe let loose a couple of c
harges from the shotgun. Thunder coughed from the barrel; the slugs punctured the metal face of the drink cooler with metallic tinks and soda pop bottles fizzed. The plywood wall splintered and fluorescent tube lights burst. Trent and Priest crouched low, trying to avoid the ricocheting pellets and debris raining down.

  Roe turned and fired and the plate-glass window dissolved in a shimmering waterfall. Then he fired a volley of shots at Trent and Priest with his pistol. He waited for a second then bolted for the shattered store window.

  Trent dove out from behind the drink cooler. He squeezed off four shots. The bullets danced up Roe’s back; he twisted in a shower of red spray, knocking over the popcorn machine before collapsing across the jagged window frame.

  “My shirt pocket,” Priest wheezed.

  Trent fished out the key and uncuffed his wrists. “C’mon, big man, time to go.”

  “See what . . . they’re doing.”

  Trent peeked around the corner. Dana was crawling like a drugged turtle around the counter, and Roe was slumped across the window with a spreading pool of blood beneath him. “One dead and one wounded. It’s over.”

  Trent lifted Priest to his feet and walked him through the wafting gunsmoke to Dana. He was on his knees holding tight to a floor safe like he was trying to pick it up; frothy blood foamed out the bullet hole in his back.

  Trent knelt beside him. “Chloe Lee,” he said, “where is she?”

  The overhead fan cast thin slices of shadow over the side of his face. “Never had the Asian girl,” he said, his eyes wide open. Pink bubbles popped between his lips. “Can’t figure that one . . .”

  “Who’s the Midtown Murderer?”

  “Shifty bastard . . . whoever he is,” Dana said, spitting up blood.

  Trent kept his eyes fixed on the man’s eyes. “Where the hell is Chloe?”

  Priest waved him quiet. “Did you kill Ramsey?”

  Dana winced like he had heartburn. “. . . took out her team. Scorched them . . . But . . . killed her . . .”

  Trent looked at Priest. “Butler?”

  Dana was breathing in short, wheezing spasms. “But—” he said, gurgling blood. Then he was gone.