By Blood Written

by Steven Womack

  As she parked the car, she spotted an elderly black man in a ragtag overcoat, torn stocking cap, and dirty, worn Nikes pushing a grocery cart down the sidewalk through the gray slush and onto the parking lot of the convenience store.

  Greenwood smiled, knowing what was coming next. Like most of the other Central Sector patrol officers, she knew that despite a lifetime in prison, the old man-known only as “Pops”-was completely harmless, if a bit disconcerting at first.

  Greenwood parked the squad car and sat there for a few seconds with the motor running. As Pops struggled to push his grocery cart through the slowly melting frozen mud, Greenwood turned the car ignition off and stepped out of the Ford. A bitter wind caught her square in the face, causing her to shiver and pull her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

  “Hey, Officah!” Pops called out from the other side of the parking lot.

  “Hey, Pops,” Greenwood answered. “You keeping warm?”

  “Yeah, but I just got me one question.”

  Greenwood smiled, knowing what was coming. “What is it?”

  “You ever let a ol’ niggah eat yo’ pussy?”

  Greenwood cleared her throat, thankful that the parking lot was empty except for the two of them.

  “No, Pops, can’t say I ever have.”

  The old man smiled a toothless, pink grin at her. “Well, you evah decide to, you call me, ya hear?”

  “Sure thing, Pops. I’ll let you know.” Greenwood turned toward the front door of the market. “You want a coffee?”

  she yelled back over her shoulder.

  Greenwood knew Pops had been banned from the store years ago. If he wanted anything from inside, somebody else had to get it for him.

  “Just like me, baby!” he yelled. “Hot and black!”

  Greenwood assumed that was a yes, but truth was, you could never be sure with Pops. She entered the store, nodded to the clerk, made small talk, and walked around the store a couple of times. She was close enough to the end of her shift that if she killed a few more minutes, it would be time to head in and sign out. Just another day at the office.

  Greenwood poured two Styrofoam cups full of coffee, added a packet each of sugar and artificial creamer to hers, then capped them both. The clerk-a pretty, young African-American woman-offered her the coffee for free, but Greenwood smiled and made her take a five. The woman made change, thanked Greenwood for coming in, and smiled pleasantly back at her. It felt good that the girl was glad to see her.

  Out on the sidewalk, Greenwood dodged the few icy patches left on the concrete and walked around the front of the store to the corner. Pops’s grocery cart was pushed up against the cinder-block wall next to a large Dumpster. Hanging out of the Dumpster, she saw the baggy seat of the old man’s pants, followed by his bony legs dangling from his two-sizes-too-large trousers and wondered how the hell he ever managed to stay warm.

  “Gotcha coffee, Pops,” Greenwood announced.

  The old man pushed himself out of the Dumpster, his feet sliding as they hit the frozen ground. Suddenly the old man let out a whooping sound as he struggled to regain his balance.

  “Man, dey’s some nasty shit in deah!” he yelled.

  Greenwood held out the cup of coffee toward him. “Be careful, it’s slippery out here.”

  “You gots to see dis,” the old man said.

  “I don’t gots to see nothing,” Greenwood said. “It’s a Dumpster, Pops. Of course there’s some nasty shit in it.”

  The old man ignored her outstretched hand. “No, lady, you gots to see dis. I ain’t seen nothing like dis since dey had da riots in ‘76.”

  Her curiosity piqued, Greenwood took a couple of steps closer to the grime-and filth-encrusted Dumpster, thankful that at least with the brutal cold, there was no smell.

  “Pops, what the hell are you-”

  Greenwood stopped as the old man backed out of the Dumpster gate again, this time unraveling an ice-encrusted, stiff pair of green coveralls splattered with dark, nearly black, coppery stains.

  “Look at dis,” the old man shouted. “Somebody done got stuck dis time! Whooo-whee! “

  “Pops,” Greenwood said slowly, cautiously, every instinct telling her that this was not your usual convenience-store garbage. “Listen, buddy, I need you to put that back where you got it and move over here away from that thing. You hear me, Pops?”

  “But I can wear dese and dey’s some cans and shit in deah, too,” the old man whined. “I git me some money …”

  “We’ll get the cans out later,” Greenwood said. “Come on over here and get your coffee, Pops. C’mon, it’s cold out here. You need to drink your coffee.”

  Pops smiled at her, stepped over and took the coffee out of her hand, and licked his lips.

  “Stay close by, Pops. I’m just going to take a look in there, okay?”

  Greenwood pulled the Maglite off her utility belt and walked carefully toward the Dumpster. The late-afternoon sun was setting just off the horizon; dusk was barely ninety minutes away, and already this side of the building was heavily in shadow. Greenwood approached the Dumpster carefully, not knowing what to expect, and then sidled up to the door and peeked in, the Maglite’s sharp, focused beam playing over the surface of the garbage.

  Most of the contents of the Dumpster was the usual rub-bish: broken-down cardboard boxes, plastic soda containers, cans, a couple of discarded whiskey bottles, and piles of amber beer bottles. And on top of the trash-a heap of rags, crumpled up, frozen with something that looked enough like dried, frozen blood for Greenwood to realize her shift wasn’t as close to being over as she thought it was.

  She reached for her Handie-Talkie to call in, then thought better of it. Her instincts were at work again, and her instincts warned her that the news media, freelancers, and a host of private citizens supplemented their dreary lives and endless winter cabin fever by keeping a police scanner going at all times. The city was due for an eight-million-dollar grant to convert over to a high-tech digital communications system that was impervious to the analog scanners, but the money had been held up by a political catfight in the legislature.

  Greenwood reached inside her jacket and pulled out her cell phone. She raised the tiny antenna, punched in a number, and held the phone to her ear. She held on while the phone rang twenty times before someone answered.

  “Murder Squad,” a voice said, “Chavez speaking.”

  “Detective Chavez, this is MPO Deborah Greenwood, Central Sector.”

  “Hello, Greenwood, what can I do for you?” The voice sounded young, with a slight Hispanic accent.

  “I thought I’d better call on the cell phone rather than go through dispatch. The desk sarge this morning gave us a handout on those two girls that were killed down on Church Street Friday night.”

  “Early Saturday morning,” Chavez said. “What’ve you got? “

  “I’m down at the Mapco Express on Charlotte Avenue just off the I-40 interchange. Got a local Dumpster diver down here who came across a pile of bloody rags and clothes. I just happened to be stopping by for coffee and he led me here. I don’t know if it’s anything or not, but thought I’d better call.”

  The voice on the other end was suddenly tense. “Officer-

  what did you say your name was?”

  “Greenwood, Deborah Greenwood.”

  “Officer Greenwood, I want you to secure the scene, keep the guy who found this nearby, and sit tight till we get there.

  And nothing goes out over the radio, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good,” Chavez said. “Now give me your cell phone number in case I need to get to you before we arrive.”

  Greenwood gave her the number, then grabbed her pad and scribbled down Chavez’s cell phone number.

  “And Greenwood,” the voice said.

  “Yes?”

  “You done good.”

  Greenwood smiled. “Thanks, Detective Chavez.”

  Special Agent Hank Powell got the call on hi
s cell phone just as he was pulling into the parking lot of Nashville International Airport to catch his flight back to D.C. He had spent the last two days working with the Nashville police reviewing the case history of the Alphabet Man, detailing the other eleven crime scenes, and working to establish the kinds of linkages and clues the homicide detectives should be searching for.

  Powell clicked off his cell phone and drove past the entrance to the rental return parking lot, all the way around the outskirts of the massive facility, and back onto the freeway headed downtown. By the time he got to the Mapco Express, the homicide detectives had the entire parking lot cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape and were holding off a phalanx of media vehicles interspersed with curious onlookers, most of them young and black.

  Powell flipped his badge wallet open at the uniformed officer controlling access to the parking lot, signed the crime-scene log-in sheet, and parked his rental next to an unmarked white Crown Victoria. On the other side of the lot, near the corner of the building, he saw Lieutenant Max Bransford and Detective Gilley huddled together, vainly trying to keep the wind off them.

  “What’ve we got?” he asked, approaching the two men and pulling his overcoat tightly around him.

  “I think we got lucky,” Bransford said. “That uniformed officer over there-” Bransford pointed toward Officer Greenwood, who was leaning against the hood of her Ford Taurus as Maria Chavez stood next to her scribbling in a notepad.

  “-just happened to be doing a drive-by of this place when some wacky old guy who makes his living in the en-trepreneurial recycling industry came across a pile of bloody clothes inside that thing.”

  Bransford pointed behind him. Powell took two steps to his left and spied the Dumpster over Gilley’s shoulder.

  “What’ve you found?” Powell asked.

  Gilley flipped open his notebook and looked down at his notes. “The lab techs are still in there scouring the place out.

  But so far we’ve got a bloody, torn jumpsuit, a pair of white socks with bloodstains, a couple of bloody white towels that are consistent with the type of towels we found at the tanning parlor …”

  Powell felt his heart begin to race. Of the thirteen murders committed by the Alphabet Man, this was the first instance of any of his effects being found. For the first time, the police had found his dump site.

  “And, best of all,” Gilley said, “two pairs of latex gloves covered in what appears to be blood. One of the four gloves is torn.”

  “Jesus,” Powell said. “That means maybe one of the girls managed to scratch him, tear a piece off one of the gloves, and he had to change.”

  “Meaning,” Bransford said, finishing Powell’s thought,

  “that maybe we’ve got some of the killer’s blood on that glove as well.”

  Powell looked around, scanning the scene. “It’s getting dark out here,” Powell said. “Can the lab get some lights up?”

  “Already in progress,” Gilley said.

  Powell turned to Bransford, knowing that he was the ranking officer at the crime scene and not wanting to step on anyone’s toes, but also not wanting to mince a single word as to the importance of this discovery.

  “Max, we need that Dumpster scraped and swabbed all the way down to the paint. I know it’s miserably cold out here and this is rough duty, but this is our first chance to really nail this bastard on some forensic evidence. There may be hair, saliva, fingerprints. Hell, we don’t know.”

  “We’re going to get it all, Hank,” Bransford said, reassuring him. “But it’s going to take time. I think our best bet is to have the Dumpster hauled downtown and have the techs go through it in the garage.”

  “Works for me,” Powell said. “But let’s get a thorough search of the area around it before we move it. There might be footprints, tire tracks.”

  “That’ll be a tough one, Agent Powell,” Gilley said.

  “There’s a lot of foot traffic here, this being the closest convenience market to a housing project. Some of this ice has melted, which is going to distort any tire tracks. Plus lots of discarded bottles, cigarette butts. Hell, people are just trashy, you know.”

  “Get what we can, as much as we can, now, before it’s too late,” Powell said, urgency in his voice. “We can sort it all out later.”

  “Okay,” Gilley said, nodding. “We’re also canvassing the neighborhood, and we’ve got the manager inside going through his time cards to see who was working the cash register late Friday night, early Saturday morning. Maybe this guy dumped his clothes, then came in for a six-pack and a loaf of bread afterward.”

  “What about surveillance cameras?” Powell asked.

  “None on the exterior,” Gilley said, waving his hand around the parking lot. “The manager’s pulling the tape out of the interior camera.”

  “Is it a looping tape?” Powell asked, knowing that if it was, the traffic from the night of the homicide would be long erased.

  “The manager doesn’t know,” Gilley said, grinning. “He’s new, never had to do this before.”

  “Great,” Powell said. “We’ll just have to check the time and date stamps. And, look, I just thought of something.

  Who touches a Dumpster? I mean, you’re gonna throw stuff in there, you try not to touch anything. So dust the area around the metal door for prints, then fume it with iodine, ninhydrin, silver nitrate, whatever. You guys got a laser in the lab?”

  Bransford nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Shoot it with that, then. Maybe there won’t be as many prints on there as we think. At least we’ll have them in the file. This is our chance to nail the bastard. Let’s not blow it.”

  “I called the TBI lab,” Bransford said, “I’ve told them to bump the specimens to the head of the lab. I want a DNA profile ASAP.”

  “Great,” Powell said, “and if they get jammed up, I’ll get Washington in on it.”

  “Super,” Bransford said.

  Powell looked at Gilley and Bransford, and a smile slowly came to his face.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked.

  Gilley shook his head. “What?”

  “The guy’s fucked up,” Powell answered. “For the first time, he got sloppy. No matter what happens from now on out, this is the beginning of the end. He’s ours now. He’s history. I can taste it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Monday evening, Manhattan

  A light dusting of snow had covered the sidewalks as Taylor Robinson pushed open the heavy wooden front door of Joan Delaney’s brownstone. Moments earlier, she’d glanced up from the manuscript she was reading and saw the time: six-fifteen. She yelped, bolted out of her chair, threw on her overcoat and wool hat and grabbed her briefcase, then raced down the stairs. She had fifteen minutes to make it all the way across town and up the West Side, a task that on a snowy February evening in Manhattan was a practical impossibility.

  She glanced to her left, then right, desperately hoping to spot an available cab. The street was lined with cars moving along at walking speed, but the only cabs she saw had darkened roof-mounted medallion lights. She began walking west the two long blocks to Third Avenue, hoping that by getting to a cross street, she’d have twice the chance of catching a taxi.

  The winter gusts seemed to rip through the Manhattan canyons faster and more powerfully than ever as they gathered strength on their way to the East River and Queens.

  Taylor pulled her coat tightly around her and bent into the wind, forcing herself to move as quickly as she could while still maintaining her balance on the slick streets.

  New York was gray in the seemingly endless wintertime.

  Even then Taylor loved the city, its gloomy days melting into early darkness and frigid evenings. She found the cold invigorating, the nights romantic, even though it had been months since she’d had the chance to share a romantic evening with anyone.

  Taylor loved the city; what she hated was being late. She’d been reading a manuscript from the slush pile that actual
ly might have some promise. Maybe, she thought, Michael will understand.

  About fifty feet from the intersection and just ahead of her, a yellow Checker Cab pulled off to the right in front of the Hawthorne Building, its door opening and discharging an older woman in an ancient fur coat carrying two large Bloomingdale’s bags. Taylor put her fingers to her mouth and whistled, hard, just the way her brother had taught her when they were kids. The shrill, piercing noise easily caught the driver’s attention. Seconds later, Taylor slid into the rear seat, pulled her briefcase in behind her, and slammed the door. The driver turned, scowling at her through the dingy bulletproof Plexiglas panel.

  “Sorry,” she said, “didn’t mean to slam it.”

  The driver’s wrinkled face softened a bit. “Where to?”

  “Broadway and Seventy-eighth,” Taylor answered.

  The driver shifted, turning to face the front of the car and grabbing the wheel. “Care which way we go?” he asked.

  “Whatever’s fastest. Your call.”

  “Gotcha,” the driver said, slapping the handle on the meter and jerking the car forward as the light at Second changed.

  Twenty-five minutes later, the driver turned onto Broadway a half block from the restaurant. “There,” Taylor instructed, pointing out the right front corner of the cab. She checked the meter and quickly figured a generous tip that could be left without having to wait for change, and pulled two bills out of her wallet.

  The driver pushed the slide tray into the passenger com-partment. “Thanks,” Taylor announced loudly as she stuffed the bills into the plastic bin and reached for the door handle.

  “Pleasure was all mine,” the cabbie said, his voice a mixture of stress and sarcasm.

  Taylor stepped gingerly out onto the slick street and was careful not to slam the door again. She made her way between two parked cars over to the sidewalk and up the front steps of La Caridad, the neighborhood restaurant Michael had requested for dinner. The front of the restaurant was, as usual, packed with locals waiting for a table. She scanned the crowd, looked past it, and spotted Michael at a window table near the middle of the restaurant. She slid past a group of chattering college-age kids and wove her way through the crowd. He glanced up from the menu just as she approached the table.