The Midtown Murderer

by David Carlisle

  The door opened and two Midtown patrolmen walked in. They pulled off their heavy coats and sat behind Trent. The waitress stopped and they ordered donuts and coffee.

  “Best Bavarian cream in town,” a voice said.

  The other voice said, “Chocolate frosted are twenty percent off.”

  “Tonight we gotta be on the lookout for that Palmer guy.”

  “I want to shake his hand. Give him a fucking medal for every gangster he kills.”

  “I think he’s up to nine; if he makes it to ten, the mayor should give him a gold key to the city.”

  “Plenty others around here need killing.”

  “Agreed. Hey, I never see Radcliff anymore; how’s he holding up?”

  Trent stared out the storefront window at the gunmetal gray buildings and eavesdropped.

  “Hard to tell. Guy’s a workaholic; can’t even get him out for a cold beer. Runs a yard business on his days off, is what I hear.”

  “Jesus. First his daughter, then his wife. Can you imagine how he felt? Must still feel? Talk about some bad business.”

  “If that was bad, I’d hate to see awful,” the man said sadly.

  “What did I learn from that? Momma and I will be moving our kids out of this good-for-nothing town.”

  “That’s sage advice.”

  Trent finished his coffee and pulled on his coat and hat. Bracing himself for the wind, he made his way to the Atlanta Public Library. He had planned to excavate information on meth labs but decided instead to study the floor plans at Lynn’s historic house.

  He made copies of the information he needed then walked over to a stand-alone computer and typed a string of words into Google to see what popped up. Google gnawed at the search query, then presented the results.

  He sat back and laughed. “Damn internet,” he muttered. “If you know the slightest bit about a person . . .”

  He pulled on his coat and stepped outside. He felt surprisingly alert and refreshed as he mingled with the over-coat wearing, briefcase-toting crowd. He knew he was very close to finding Chloe.

  Chapter 53

  Later that evening, Trent stood under a dead street light at the corner of Peachtree and Third. He was alone except for several pigeons and a skinny man bundled into an overcoat and scarf leaning against a chain-link fence. The globular street lamp flared off the shiny wine bottle the hobo was holding.

  A new moon had risen, and in the transparency of the night he could clearly see Lynn’s property across the street. The gate was locked and strung with colorful lights. A single light shone from a second-floor window. Barking came from the street-level barred windows. Trent was reasonably sure that the animals were the only occupants.

  His face was stiff and his fingers numb; he had to move soon. He was still wondering how to get in when a technician backed a Southern Bell telephone repair truck onto the sidewalk behind the FOX Theater that was adjacent to Lynn’s fence.

  The man crawled out of the cab and studied his paperwork. Releasing a steel support leg from one side of the vehicle, he locked it in place and repeated the procedure on the other side. Then he opened a control box at the back of the truck and manipulated a lever. A telescoping arm with a deep plastic basket attached to the end swung level from the top of the truck and stopped next to a telephone pole. Then the man locked the truck and ducked into an Irish pub.

  Trent dashed over and stood under the basket. Grabbing the lip with both hands, he hoisted himself up and threw a leg over the side. He dropped into the basket and waited for it to quit rocking back and forth. Then he peeked out. No one was interested in his activities.

  On the side of the basket was a control box with two levers. Trent nudged the top lever and the basket rose a foot; he toggled the lower lever and the basket swung to the left.

  He positioned himself over the fence and dropped from the basket. His ankle gave a stab of pain, but he ignored it and dashed to the front door. It was locked. He ran around back, but a giant padlock deterred him.

  Trent edged down the side of the house, relieved to find old double-hung windows. The curtains inside were frayed and gray with dirt. He removed the screen from the kitchen window; it had a simple latch on the inside that held the two parts together. The window halves were jammed, so he put the heels of his hands on the top crosspiece of the upper window, leaned, and pumped downward with his triceps. That popped the catch, and the old paint and years of rust gave way and the window scraped loudly open.

  A striped cat, who saw opportunity in Trent’s deceit watched from his perch under an overhanging eve. Trent had started to snake-crawl in when the astute cat, timing his jump perfectly, landed on his back. The cat wanted in, of course, and Trent tried to shake him off, but to no avail. He rode in with Trent then walked onto the kitchen counter.

  Trent quickly displayed his lack of burglary skills by knocking a few dishes from the counter to the floor. The breaking of saucers and cups terrified him, but he doubted the sounds had carried to the street.

  He closed the window so it would look normal from the outside then turned to study where he was. He was in a kitchen that would have been a modern marvel in the Roosevelt administration; there was a turret-topped G.E. refrigerator and an ancient Magic Chef range with an encrusted oven door. He searched the kitchen and tiny living-room with a mini Maglite flashlight but couldn’t find what he was looking for.

  It was damn cold in the house. He turned up the thermostat before he started up a narrow, dusty staircase. At the top he stepped onto threadbare carpeting in a short hallway with peeling wallpaper. There were two doors to his left. He peered into the first door with his flash and saw a small bedroom. A large dust sheet was draped over the furniture like a tent whose support poles had been removed.

  The second room was a dark confusion of still shadows and silence. A dusk-caked window cast a murky shaft of streetlight onto an old bed, a table, and a chair. This was where Lynn lived.

  Trent made his way around stacks of boxes and books with his light and looked through the closet. He found an assortment of oddments mixed in with the rumpled T-shirts, underwear and socks, but what he wanted wasn’t there.

  Dejected, he pulled out an empty suitcase and found a double-handled doctor’s bag in the corner. He thought it was quite heavy; so he dumped the medical supplies onto the bed.

  He worked his fingers around the inside and peeled back a false bottom. And there he found it. A Smith & Wesson revolver was protecting a half-dozen needles, a few syringes, and a Ziploc bag full of white powder.

  He moistened a fingertip and touched the flake to his tongue. Heroin, he said to himself, pulling a face. Maybe ten grand’s worth.

  He wondered how deep Lynn was in with the gangsters. How much he knew about the crooked cops. Well, there was one way to find out. He took the bag downstairs and fed the cat a bowl of milk. Then he lighted a cigarette and sat at a small kitchen table.

  Chapter 54

  Trent didn’t have a long wait. Two cigarettes later a single headlight illuminated the front window.

  When Lynn opened the door to the apartment, pale-yellow light spilled into the kitchen over Trent’s legs.

  Trent didn’t say anything. Lynn walked right by him to the refrigerator. “Muffin,” he said, “how did you—”

  “Muffin needed a milk fix,” Trent said.

  Lynn spun and threw his hands out. His lips were drawn tight, and his eyes burned with fear. The twelve pack of Bud he’d been carrying crashed to the floor. Fizzing cans skidded across the lime-green linoleum.

  Muffin yowled at the noise then raced around the corner and up the stairs.

  “H-how did you get into my house?”

  “Through the chimney.”

  “You dropped off that rib-thin dog this afternoon,” he said angrily.

  “The name is Palmer; I find missing people.” Trent slid a chair toward him. “Sit.”

  Lynn slumped heavily, the chair squeaking noisily on the slick linoleum. Looking frig
htened he said, “Your picture is all over the news; you’re wanted for the office murders! Get out of here now!”

  Trent retrieved a beer from the floor and popped the top. When it quit foaming he took a sip. “How long have you been hooked on heroin?”

  Lynn’s breath rushed. “I’m not an addict; I have a license to store pharmaceuticals at my place of business.”

  Trent pulled the newspaper aside and showed him the bag.

  “I’m calling the police,” Lynn said with absolutely no confidence. “You’ll be—”

  “No you won’t. If you did, wouldn’t someone come looking for the heroin? They’d get rough with you, much rougher than I will if you don’t start talking.”

  Lynn had developed a nervous twitch in one eye. “What do you want?”

  “Information about a missing child.”

  Lynn pressed his trembling palms to the sides of his head. “My lawyer; I’ll call my lawyer.”

  Trent leaned across the table and punched Lynn hard in the face. He tumbled over backwards, tried to stand, but crumpled back to the floor. Trent tossed the kitchen table aside and set the chair upright.

  He grabbed Lynn by his lapels and slammed him onto the seat. After Trent had duct-taped him to the chair, he knelt in front of him.

  “Talk, Doctor.”

  His head rolled back and forth. “I . . . can . . . explain . . .”

  “Just tell me who and where they are.”

  “D-don’t know—”

  Trent opened his handkerchief and showed him the severed finger and ring. The items seemed to suck the breath from the doctor’s lungs.

  “The gangsters will torture you to find out who I am; then they will kill you. Now, for the last time, tell me how you contact them.” Trent lighted a cigarette with his well-worn Zippo and blew smoke in the doctor’s face. He added, “It’s not too late to save your life.”

  A fat trickle of blood ran from Lynn’s nose onto his shirt. His breathing was shallow, and Trent could barely make his words. “They come in the evening . . .”

  “Talk to me.”

  Lynn took a deep breath as if pulling his memory out of the air. “Granddad left me a fortune . . . I-I blew it all on heroin . . . In ten years my habit bankrupted me.”

  “Who’s your supplier?”

  He looked at Trent with haunted eyes. “Triple. Don’t know his real name.”

  “How did he get his hooks into you?”

  “One summer I rode choppers with the evil twins. They set me up with a couple of minors. The bastards had a video camera hidden in the closet.”

  “Blackmail,” Trent said.

  “Yes. Triple fronts me the cash to keep the business open. I knew it couldn’t last.”

  “My money says you run a super meth plant; it’s behind the kennel wall. Right?”

  Lynn looked away. Tears rolled from his cheeks. “Yes.”

  “How do they get in?”

  “The stall,” he said, having to say it twice, “the stall the black pit-bull is in. A trap door—”

  “That hole is for the cooks; where do they bring the supplies in?”

  “No—”

  Trent grabbed him by the ears and yanked him within inches of his face. “Now, Doctor. Tell me!”

  “N-near a retention pond,” he said in a trembling voice. “East of First Street where the new skyscraper is going up.”

  “Will they come tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Triple?”

  He nodded.

  “Was Jack spying on Triple?”

  Lynn’s face quivered. “No. He was a victim of circumstances; Triple discovered that he worked for Garcia and killed him.”

  “The child. Where is she?”

  “Don’t know about the child.”

  Trent backhanded him across the face. “Think, doctor. A little girl was kidnapped the morning Jack was murdered. Did Triple nab her?”

  “No,” he said, blinking his eyes and trying to focus. “Triple bragged that he killed Jack; but he never said anything about a child. That’s all I know. I swear . . .”

  “You know more,” Trent said, slapping a rectangular piece of duct tape over his mouth then dragging him into a hall closet. “I’ll be back. If you want your heroin; you had better talk.”

  The doctor’s facial features were contorted in horror as Trent shut the door.

  Chapter 55

  Now it was eleven in the evening. Trent had his dinner and was in a somewhat better mood, but Christmas Eve was turning out to be very long, and he had put off this unpleasant chore as long as possible.

  Inside Radcliff’s garage Trent found a rudimentary small-engine workshop. He used his penlight to examine lawn mower engines, gas-powered trimmers, and chainsaws. He hoped to find the evidence he needed before Radcliff arrived home.

  He was inside Radcliff’s jet black pickup truck, admiring the smell of the new leather and looking under the seats, when the overhead florescent lights were switched on.

  Radcliff stepped into the garage from a side door. He wore a black hoodie, black Levis, and heavy-duty lace-up boots. He had a black, back-pack style leaf blower on his shoulders. Flex-tubing ran from the back-pack and connected to a black plastic funnel that he held by a trigger grip on the bottom of the tubing.

  “Hey, you, get the fuck out of my truck!”

  Trent crawled out of the cab.

  Radcliff squinted at Trent and said, “Who-”

  “It’s Palmer.”

  “Jesus, Palmer. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” he said, pointing the funnel at Trent’s torso.

  “I gotcha,” Trent said. “You’re the Midtown Murderer.”

  “Not gonna live to prove it,” he said, reaching behind with his free hand and yanking the start cord. The tiny motor revved to life, and when he cycled the trigger, the engine let loose a high-pitched squeal.

  Trent covered his eyes with his forearm, but no wind blew from the nozzle. Radcliff laughed and used his free hand to twist and remove the funnel from its coupling.

  Radcliff was holding the grip of a stubby machine pistol that was fitted inside the flex tubing. His index finger was curled around the trigger. A second trigger had been added to control the speed of the blower motor.

  Trent locked eyes with Radcliff and said nothing, figuring he was going to die. His gaze fell to the pistol and his body shook with a sudden chill.

  Radcliff reached back and switched off the motor.

  “Heckler & Kotch MP5 firing nine-millimeter hollow-points,” Trent said, trying to act cool and indifferent.

  “Yeah,” Radcliff said with a broad smile. “The plastic funnel is lined with a baffle that soaks up the shockwaves. Helluva silencer. When the motor’s revving, the bullets don’t make any noise.”

  “Pretty slick,” Trent said admiringly.

  Radcliff snorted bitterly. “The entire Atlanta Police Department and the FBI has been running in circles looking for the Midtown Murderer. And what happens? Mr. Peoplefinders.com tumbles to me. Twenty-four hours you said; twenty-four goddamn hours and you’d be gone! I should have arrested you on site!”

  “Lieutenant Ramsey and you were married for sixteen years,” Trent said, weighing his words carefully. “You were instrumental in helping her become the highest-ranking female officer in the agency’s history. At the age of forty-five she was promoted to Chief of Homicide; she would have been a shoe-in for Clay’s job when he retired.”

  “Public knowledge,” Radcliff fired back.

  “Last August thirteenth,” Trent continued, “she led a drug interdiction team on a meth lab bust. The thugs knew the cops were coming; they rigged the lab with explosives and three officers, including your wife were killed; their bodies were burnt beyond recognition.”

  Radcliff shrugged.

  “Every step she took up the agency ladder, you were there for her. You even set aside your own career and
never once felt cheated; you were in a world of hurt after she was murdered.”

  “What hurt was the way she was killed!”

  Very cautiously Trent said, “If her death wasn’t bad enough, three years ago you lost your only daughter to a meth overdose. It all fits, Radcliff; you went nuts.”

  “Goddamn right I went nuts,” he said hoarsely. “My precious daughter took a hot shot of crystal-meth cut with Drano!”

  “Radcliff, I’m sorry for her.”

  “Sorry don’t cut ice,” he said. “OK, Palmer, before I blast you to hell and back, how’d you tumble to me?”

  “The rental house where you blasted the three thugs,” Trent said. “You knew there was a daycare out back; you called the fire department and had a big red fire truck delivered for the kids to crawl through. Everyone was in front of the school when you took care of business.”

  He blinked nervously. “Your word against my nine-mil.”

  “I called the number on your brochure. ‘Radcliff’s Superior Lawn Service.’”

  Keeping the weapon aimed at Trent, Radcliff backed up to the window and pushed down a corner of the Venetian blinds. He peered out intently. A siren bleated in the distance. “You’ll never live to prove it.”

  “A wheel-chaired man watched you cut the grass at the rental,” Trent said, holding up a Milky Way wrapper. “I found this where you parked your black rig.”

  Cleary shocked by the news, Radcliff turned from the blinds. The stress had creased his face into a walnut shell. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Anima watched you shoot Jack; he picked you out of a stack of pictures,” Trent said, trying hard not to make it sound like a threat.

  Radcliff wet his lips. “Who’s going to believe an old wino?”

  “If I don’t pick him up,” Trent said in a friendly tone, “he’s got several letters addressed and stamped; he’ll drop them in the mail.”

  A slight hesitation. Radcliff was a desperate man under pressure. “Bullshit.”

  “Insurance, Radcliff. Gotta have it. I stashed Anima in a hotel.”