He slipped Grant Green’s Born to be Blue into the CD player and sat quietly on a padded swivel chair at his rolltop desk. There were books piled on shelves, and more remained unpacked in cardboard boxes. Snow was piled on the windowsill and frost coated the glass.
He sipped the Early Times as horrific images from last night coursed through his mind: Crowbar’s lifeless body splayed on the pavement, a flash of lightning freeze framing the thug he shot into stances that would stay in his mind long afterwards.
He unfolded the morning paper. The headline was centered on the top half of the front page: HACKED BODIES FOUND IN METH LAB HOME. It never ends, he thought, gazing at a photo on the lower half of the front page showing an officer talking to several journalists in front of a derelict house where the triple homicide had occurred. There’s a familiar face, he thought, reading the accompanying article that detailed the sharp rise in meth-related killings in Atlanta. The piece began:
“Gangsters are public enemy number one,” said Detective Lieutenant McClure, the Atlanta Police Department’s spokesman. “Atlanta will not bow to terrorism. Justice will prevail . . .”
Gangsters, Trent thought angrily, his fingertips straying unconsciously to a pink scar that ran from his ear to his chin. He was a fit man of forty with broad-shoulders and curly dark hair, and the pain and sight of that wound were daily reminders of the bullet that almost ended his life. He was lucky to survive. But his fiancée did not.
He stared at the frost-coated window and drifted off into memories of Sylvia. She was a young Latin beauty with dark skin and a smile to light the darkest corners of life. He fingered the upside down five-pointed gold star in his hand as he recalled the events that had led to his shooting and her death.
He had been assigned to gather enough evidence to convict a hard-core member of the Latin Kings for ordering the execution of the wife and daughter of an opposing cocaine supplier.
Trent spent months investigating Huero Largo. He received dozens of death threats for his efforts, and the morning a grand jury convened to hear the charges, he was in his driveway polishing his Ducati. Suddenly he found himself on the ground with an expanding pool of blood under his head, the victim of a drive-by shooting. While he convalesced, Largo was arrested and charged with racketeering and two counts of murder.
Trent was seated in the front row of the courtroom the morning the jury was set to deliver Largo’s verdict. An underworld friend of Largo’s leaned close to Trent and whispered that he had intimidated the star witness to the point that she would not testify. Trent clutched the railing in disbelief, gripped by fear that the biggest gangbanger in South Florida might be found innocent.
Trent remembered the judge saying, “Has the jury reached a verdict?” The foreman’s short stocky body, in jeans and a red sweater, seemed to rise like a balloon rather that just stand up. “Yes, Your Honor, we have.”
Trent looked down at the floor, his left leg shaking, anger and vengeance weighing heavily on him. The judge instructed the thug to rise; his lawyer rose with him.
“Read your verdict, please.”
The foreman, smiling, said, “On every count, we find the defendant not guilty.”
“WHEEE-OOOO!” Largo took great gulps of breath and seized his lawyer in a bear hug. “Great job!”
Trent snapped. He remembered dashing to his car and retrieving a tire iron from the trunk. Then he slid the two-foot piece of steel down his jeans and mingled with the crowd outside the courthouse. When a Court Officer led the grinning thug into the sunlight, Trent crushed him square in the jaw with the tire iron. Blood exploded from the thug’s mouth, and his tongue protruded, forked like a snake by a deep gash running from front to back. Trent swung again and again, mesmerized by the wet thud of the blows to the thug’s skull.
Trent was tackled by officers before he killed Largo. He was placed in a jail cell, and by the time the handcuffs were removed, the Chief of Police had fired him from the force.
And then Trent got hit with a knockout blow-a blow so overpowering that three hundred and ninety-six days later he was still struggling to regain his balance. The day before he was released from jail, Sylvia was found in their apartment bathroom hanged with an extension cord. His mind kept returning to the autopsy picture the police had showed him. The thugs didn’t rape or shoot her. They’d beat her to death then hung her. Trent swore that Largo had ordered her murder, but the police were backlogged and put no real effort into her investigation.
Trent had gone often into the closet where she had died, for this is where he knew he was closest to her. He would hold out his hands and imagine himself caressing and kissing her. One day he took his gun in the closet, intent on putting a bullet through his brain. He knew he had hit rock bottom, not because he had contemplated suicide, but because he had ample nerve to pull the trigger. That day he entered a treatment program.
When Trent had pieced together enough of his life to function on his own, he left Miami and wandered. Realizing that he could never mourn Sylvia enough to sooth his aching heart, he settled in Atlanta. It was a big city full of action and strangers and noise. But it was the noise that he wanted most. For he knew that it is only when one is happy and at peace that one can bear silence.
Trent’s phone purred. There was a text message waiting for him. It read: ‘Sylvia was a great time. Be seeing you soon! The Kings.’
He texted back: ‘Send every guy you got. Bring a fucking army. You’ll need it.’
Trent fell asleep reading an Internet article on how to entirely become someone else while laying the groundwork to permanently depart from parts known.
Chapter 9
It was somewhere around 5:00 A.M., and Trent’s nightmare of last night’s events had his heart pounding and his head spinning and it took him a few moments to sort out where he was and realize that someone was knocking on his door.
He got up, pulled on a pair of jeans, and squeezed a look through the peephole. There were three people standing close together so they would show up well in the lens; two uniformed officers with shaved heads stood with their hands behind their backs, and a man wearing an expensive fur-lined cashmere overcoat and leather gloves was holding an ID up high to catch the entrance light.
“Midtown police for Mr. Palmer,” the man called, just loud enough for Trent to hear him through the door.
“He’s not here,” Trent said in a whiskey baritone.
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
“Not sure, sir. I’m the building janitor.”
“Open the door please.”
“I’m not authorized to allow anyone into any office in this building; I can write down a name and number and leave it on his desk.”
Trent could hear whispering from the other side of the door. There was silence then-
Crack! The wood frame around the lock splintered, dust filled the air, and the door smashed open. Trent stood back as the trio trooped in.
The baby-faced cops were short and compact and full of subdued menace. One had a black goatee that clung to his lips and chin; he carried a twenty-five pound steel battering ram. The other was a freckly African American with a buzz cut; he cradled a cut-down shotgun. They were dressed in tan Midtown police uniforms with dark coats and tall boots polished to a mirror shine. The third man with wide shoulders and close cropped hair pulled the shattered door shut as far as it would go, then wandered around the office admiring the furnishings.
Goatee feinted a blow at Trent with the swing-arm and said, “Crash and bash! Your tax dollars hard at work!”
Trent ignored him and said angrily, “You fuckers got a warrant?”
Freckles leveled his shotgun at Trent and said, “No got.”
“Nice office,” McClure said, seemingly oblivious to the conversation around him. “Is it just you during the day?”
“Yes. When business picks up . . .”
“I see.”
“What can I do for you, McClure?”
“It’s what
you can do for yourself,” McClure said, his gray eyes checking Trent out in much the same manner he did in the interview room when Trent thought he was your basic supercop rather that a supercop who was more crooked than any crook he had ever met.
“Which is?”
“Choices, Palmer,” McClure said, removing his calf-skin gloves and coat and laying them neatly over the chair. “You have the choice to be cooperative; if not, you stay in Atlanta could be . . . difficult.”
Trent remained quiet, unsure of what he might say.
Freckles cracked gum between his molars and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. The other cop glared at Trent.
Trent was sweating. It was cool in the apartment, but he was sweating because the officers three feet away from him were scarier than the thugs he had encountered on the highway last night. “I told you everything that happened; what else do you want?”
McClure brushed lint from his black suit coat and said, “We have a discrepancy. A king-sized one.”
“I’m not aware of any.”
“Shall I spell it out?”
“Sure.”
“There were several one-hundred dollar bills saturated with blood floating in the water around the Latino you knifed; yet he had no wallet or effects on his body. Know where any of it is?”
“I have no idea.”
McClure crossed his arms and rubbed his temples. With his eyes closed he said, “This is how I see it, Palmer. Don’t ask me how. I don’t know. But you set up the carjacking, iced the thugs, and in the process came away with the object.”
“What object?”
“The thug was in possession of an object that is quite valuable to us. It’s missing, and you were the last person to see him alive.”
“I wish I could help you, McClure, but you got me wrong. I would never set those gangsters up and rob them. That would be suicidal.”
McClure stared angrily at Trent. “It is essential that you tell me the truth. Again, do you have it?”
“No.”
McClure glanced at the latex-gloved cop, as if screaming, “So this is the way it’s gotta be!”
“Look,” Trent said, his mouth parched, “no need for this. I told you—”
The fist landed like a sledge, the latex chafing his face like tire rubber. He heard his jaw hinge crack and a whiteness rose in his mind blotting out the world. When the world came back, it came back in searing pain as he rolled on the floor trying unsuccessfully to evade repeated blows from the cop’s batons.
“Where is it?”
“I. Don’t. Know!” Trent yelled, breathless as he rolled in a ball trying to cover his head with his hands; he tried to blink away the black spots forming before his eyes when a baton slammed down on his cheek.
Trent stared at McClure’s spit-shined shoes as he instructed his uniforms to search the apartment; they went through Trent’s place like a machine, poking and prying into every corner.
After a few minutes the cops shrugged at McClure. He reached in his coat pocket and took out a black pistol sealed in a plastic evidence bag and showed it to Trent. “It’s a thirty-eight, unregistered; been fired twice.”
Trent looked at the gun then up at McClure. “So?”
“This is the gun that killed a Midtown cop last month. It’s splotched with blood and covered with your fingerprints.” He put on his coat and gloves and said, “I also have time-stamped photos the morning the officer was murdered. Two photos show you leaving the Atlanta International Airport on your bike less than a mile from where the officer was murdered.”
“So you or your dwarf squad killed him.”
McClure acted as if he had not heard him. “It is essential that I know you are telling the truth; if there is any doubt in my mind, my brothers in blue will discover this gun and the photos and link the evidence to you. Rest assured you will never be taken into custody.”
Trent thought that was a polite way of saying he’d be summarily executed. He gritted his teeth waiting for another blow.
“Buy this at a jewelry store?” McClure said smugly, dropping the Latino’s upside down five-pointed gold star in front of Trent’s face. The intricate design was inches from his eyes. He could clearly see the Hebrew letters at each of the points of the pentagram. “Get the object to me ASAP and your life returns to normal,” McClure said, as his uniforms stepped outside. “And don’t call the police; it won’t help,” he said, leaning in the doorway and taking a last look around the apartment. “Good-bye.”
Chapter 10
An hour later, Trent stepped out his front door. His body was sore as hell, his cheek red and swollen, but his head was straight. He figured an early-morning walk in the park while downing a few beers would help soothe his aches.
He was on the loop road near the soccer fields chugging a Heineken when he came across a petite young woman turning in a slow circle with her hands cupped to her mouth. The immediate loudness of her pain-filled voice startled him. The more she shouted ‘Chloe’ over and over again, the more serious the situation seemed.
She wasn’t anymore than twenty-two or –three, a slender Asian beauty with dark hair clustered with ringlets. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a dark leather jacket. A colorful butterfly tattoo danced on her neck. He thought she had been crying.
“Hi. Can I help you?”
She took in Trent’s reddened cheek and said warily, “I’m Maya Lee. My six-year-old was supposed to wait at the park swings while I ran to the bathroom; have you seen a little girl with short dark hair?”
“No,” he said, “but I’ll check the tennis courts and the dog park. He added, “Why don’t you hike around the loop road that runs past the Atlanta Botanical Garden and meet me on the Tenth Street side of the park. A deal?”
She nodded. “Sure. And thanks.”
Trent yelled for the child, too, his own voice responding to Maya’s as he hoped for a feeble reply from the park. He couldn’t find Chloe so he climbed the hill to Tenth Street and found the area teeming with police and pedestrians who had gathered around a cordoned-off crime scene.
A tall, grim-faced woman stood with her arms crossed.
“What’s happening?” Trent asked.
The lady gasped. “A murder!”
Police cars were perched on the sidewalk; news vans and camera trucks with aerials extended had double-parked alongside them. Reporters were interviewing anyone who would talk while cameramen focused their lenses on a wrinkled gray tarp that lay inside a yellow circle of crime tape.
Fear tentacles gripped Trent’s heart. He scissored through the crowd and ducked the police tape. A section of the fabric was flexed upward, so he dropped to his hands and knees, breathing a sigh of relief when he spotted a man’s lace-up work boot.
Trent dashed down a sidewalk with dirty snow piled against the curb shouting Chloe’s name-past a hobo holding a cell phone to his ear-but could not find the child. Trent was spent and his voice was horse as he doubled back to the park. He spotted Maya, and the doomsday worry on her face said it all.
“Maya, over here!”
“Did you find her?” she asked worriedly.
“No.” he said, kicking at a small rock.
“She’s vanished!” Her eyes were red-rimmed, her voice tight with fear. “You’ve got to help me find my daughter,” she said, a flood of tears choking off her words.
With heartfelt emotion he said, “I will do that.”
Maya’s eyes seemed to go empty as though she were considering the worst. Even in the cold, her skin had a damp sheen of perspiration.
“Come with me,” he said, angling toward the assemblage.
She removed a lock of hair from the corner of her mouth and said, “What’s happening?”
There was no way to say it delicately so he blurted out, “A man was murdered; his body is under the tarp.”
Horror leapt into her face. “Oh. Oh my God!”
Trent held Maya’s hand and elbowed through the crowd toward Sergeant Radcliff. His stomach hu
ng over a heavy utility belt loaded down with a radio and a gun and a baton and other cop stuff; everything was held down with leather straps and snaps on them.
“We have a situation,” Trent said gravely. “Could you direct us to the officer in charge of this investigation?”
Radcliff eyed Trent and Maya and raised an eyebrow. Then he unsnapped his radio. “Inspector Priest,” he said into the speaker. “Palmer is here . . . yes it’s the same Palmer . . . says it’s urgent . . . really needs to talk to you.” Radcliff then pointed at a stand of oak trees with a half-eaten Milky Way candy bar and said, “Priest will meet you by those trees.”
Chapter 11
It was late afternoon now. A crisp, cold wind had picked up, and islands of trees swayed in the park. Dark clouds raced across the sky, and the smell of wet mulch and exhaust fumes hung in the air.
Priest’s eyes went flat when he saw Trent. “What’s your story, Palmer?”
“This is Maya; her little girl is missing from the park.”
Priest looked at Maya and she nodded. His brown eyes hardened. He whistled and three officers huddled around him. “Maya, over here please.”
Trent started to follow, but Priest checked him with his calloused palm.
While Priest talked on his walkie-talkie, Maya turned to Trent. “He instructed those officers to assemble a search team. Now he’s calling police headquarters and issuing an alert.” Maya leaned on Trent’s shoulder and sobbed. “Please tell me . . . that Chloe is alright.”
“She’s just fine.”
Priest tossed his head, and a green-gowned man with the letters ME embossed on his smock stepped forward. “The mother and I will be speaking to the press,” Priest said to the medical examiner. “I want the scene-of-crime photos, a copy of the prelims, all the physicals, and anything else that the Midtown coordination people can pool from their databases.” He added with an authoritative nod, “ASAP.”
The Midtown Murderer Page 3