The Midtown Murderer

by David Carlisle

  While an officer patted Trent down he asked, “What are the charges?”

  The officer nodded at Radcliff. “He’s clean.”

  “You’re under arrest for the suspicion of murder.”

  “No way—”

  “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You have the right to an attorney.”

  “For what?”

  “Walk him to the apartment,” said Radcliff.

  The officers held onto Trent’s upper arms; he shuffled zombielike down the side of the building feeling like he was in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

  His new reinforced front door had been reduced to a smoking hole. He staggered into his office not believing what he saw; it was hard to see his ransacked office and bedroom for all the uniformed police officers bustling about inside.

  Priest was seated at Trent’s desk tapping on an iPad. Another officer was speaking into a Dictaphone, and latex-gloved technicians were taking pictures and dusting for prints. McClure was videotaping the crime scene with a high-end Sony camcorder.

  Trent spotted bright-red blood splatters on the walls and the adhesive-tape outline of a body on the hardwood floor where several quarts of blood had run out and congealed. “Fucking A,” he whispered, wishing he was anywhere but here.

  Priest casually took in Trent’s stained and ripped clothes. “Palmer,” he said, focusing on his bloody neck and shoulder, “we were hoping you’d run.”

  Trent jerked his head toward the park. “I was running; some asshole has been chasing me around the park with a rifle.”

  Priest glanced at the technician. “Can we bring him inside?”

  “Yes. We’re done.”

  Priest gestured toward a policeman. He held the tape up for Trent, and he crawled under it.

  “Palmer,” Priest said. “Have you been informed of your rights?”

  “I’m innocent!” he said angrily, his wet shoes sloshing on the carpet. “A hot shower, that’s all I ask.”

  “Radcliff, put a guard on him,” Priest said. “And don’t take the cuffs off until he’s in the shower.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Priest was talking on his cell phone when Trent emerged from the bathroom. “Palmer,” he said, holding the phone out, “you’re coming downtown.”

  “The hell I am,” Trent said with a manic edge to his voice. “Not until I know who’s shooting at me and killing people in my apartment.”

  “Save it,” Priest said.

  “I don’t even own a gun!”

  “Radcliff,” Priest said with a measured reserve, “take him in.”

  “Jesus Christ, man. I’m bleeding!”

  “First stop and have his neck attended to,” Priest barked.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Now move it.”

  #

  Radcliff escorted Trent to the Midtown Medical Clinic. They stood side-by-side at the reception desk. Postcard Jesus was slouched in a wheeled chair listening to an iPod through bright red headphones.

  “You have to tap on the glass with that ball-point pen,” Trent explained.

  “That how it works?”

  “Yes.”

  The nurse dropped the magazine and slid the glass aside. “You again!” he said, clicking a ball-point pen. He glanced alternately at Trent and Radcliff and then came out a side door.

  When he spotted Trent’s handcuffed wrists he whistled low. “I knew you weren’t in a motorcycle accident.” Then he ushered them down the hall and into the same examination room Trent had waited in last night.

  “Do you still have my credit card on file?” Trent asked.

  “We have to start over,” he said, handing Radcliff a clipboard with several forms for Trent to sign.

  Postcard Jesus took Trent’s vitals while Radcliff filled out the paperwork. “Officer, please have Mr. Palmer sign where I highlighted the forms,” he said.

  When Postcard Jesus withdrew, Trent slumped onto a hard plastic chair. “Radcliff, tell me what’s happening.”

  Radcliff ignored him and picked up a magazine. “Only a year and a half old,” he said, tossing a copy of Field and Stream into the trash.

  “Radcliff—”

  “Nosing about is a dangerous business, Palmer,” he said stiffly. “What really happened when you visited the Whiskey A-Go-Go Lounge?”

  Trent stared at the ceiling. “I spoke with Garcia.”

  “Well, there you go. It’s evident that you pissed off the pope.”

  “Garcia wasn’t pissed. He was delighted when his goons verified that I killed Triple’s brother.”

  “Stow it. Anything you say to me I have to pass on to Priest.”

  “Well pass this on: Trent Palmer didn’t kill anyone but the gangsters on the highway.”

  Radcliff’s features softened. “Don’t give me any lip and I’ll recuff your hands in the front,” he said, placing his cigarettes and gold-plated lighter on the examination table.

  “OK,” Trent said, turning his back to Radcliff.

  Radcliff leaned and unlocked the cuffs on Trent’s wrists, then reattached them in the front.

  “That rifle toting son-of-a-bitch is as good as dead,” Trent said hoarsely, lighting a cigarette and using the red biohazard canister for an ashtray.

  Ten minutes later the Arab doctor jerked open the door and stared at Trent. Postcard Jesus peered over the doctor’s shoulder and said, “I told you he wasn’t in a motorcycle accident.”

  The doctor laughed. “Well, that’s a bloody mess,” he said, sterilizing the wound and removing the splinters from Trent’s neck. The doctor took pity on Trent for having to wait so long and he quickly finished his needlework. “You have some deep cuts that just missed the aorta,” he said, covering the stitches with a small rectangular dressing. “I’d say you’re a very lucky man. Again.”

  Postcard Jesus handed Trent’s paperwork to Radcliff and said to Trent, “Tomorrow night should I bring you some girlie magazines or a funeral wreath?”

  Trent fingered the gauze on his neck. “There are way too many comedians out of work.”

  The pneumatic doors opened with a slight whoosh. The cold wind, sensing its chance, poured in. Trent shivered not just from the cold, but also from fear as Radcliff gripped his arm and guided him to the car.

  Chapter 24

  Radcliff drove Trent to the Midtown Police Plaza. After a security check at the ground-level entrance, he took Trent up an elevator to the fourth floor, where Trent found himself in the Midtown Adult Detention Center.

  Radcliff escorted him down a long corridor lined with jail cells. The atmosphere was quiet and somber. Trent shivered when he glanced at the inmates dressed in jail orange and wondered if he’d be spending the night here.

  At the end of the hall were several interrogation rooms. Each had a tan-colored steel door and a small wire-mesh security window. A deputy stood beside an open door, and Radcliff ushered Trent inside.

  “This is it Palmer,” Radcliff said.

  “Swell.”

  Trent stepped into a windowless room that had no decorations except for a bulb on the ceiling cupped in a wire cage and a cast-iron water radiator against the wall keeping the room warm.

  Radcliff tossed his cigarettes and a throw-away lighter on the bolted-down steel table. “Sit tight,” he said, walking to the door.

  Trent plonked onto a metal chair. “Radcliff, you have to help me,” he said, dropping his cuffed hands on the table. “Help me find the killer!”

  The door shut. Then the deadbolt slammed home with a metallic thud.

  #

  Trent was listening to the steam heat when a key rattled the lock. Freckles opened the door and smirked at him.

  Then McClure came in. He turned off the intercom box by the door and took a seat across from Trent. Freckles closed the door, and McClure placed a brown file on the table between them. He looked Trent dead in the eyes as he flipped the file open and placed sever
al glossy black-and-white eight-by-tens of Winston’s dead body face up on the table. He nodded at the pictures and said, “I did not do this.”

  “Any idea who did?” Trent said, listening to his voice rattling back at him from the brick walls of the interrogation room.

  “There are a number of extremely dangerous people searching for the object in question and, thus, for you. It could be any of those elements.”

  McClure started to speak, but Trent stood and talked stubbornly through him: “I want out, McClure; I didn’t ask to become a member of your insanity and terror campaign.”

  “Sit the fuck down, Palmer,” McClure said, giving him both barrels. “Or you’re taking the rap for the murder of a Midtown cop.”

  Trent sat.

  McClure sighed. “Listen to me. The only way your life can return to normal is if you to get me the object.”

  “And you’ll get out of my fucking life forever?”

  “Yes. You are going to need a partner, and I’d truly like to help,” he said, reaching into his jacket and taking something out. He handed Jake’s business card to Trent. “Do they know everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they have the object?”

  “No.”

  “But they want it, right?”

  “Yes. They want the object.”

  “Did you tell them where to find it?”

  “No.”

  “Have you made progress in discovering the location of the object?”

  “Nickels and dimes so far.”

  “Gotta turn that loose change into real money.”

  “Working on it.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I don’t have it yet; but I know it’s a cyber key.”

  McClure’s eyes lit up. “So the object in question is locked up. That’s good news. What does the key open?”

  “Not so fast.”

  “What?”

  “Number one, I don’t trust you. And number two, I won’t give you the key and the location of the object until I’m safely away from Atlanta.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “No.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Atlanta bus terminal is one of the largest and busiest terminals in the country; they have hundreds of daily departures. Go to the terminal and purchase tickets to a dozen or more destinations. Make sure they depart late in the afternoon at roughly the same time. But don’t tell me which bus you actually intend to take; you could deceive me further by taking the light rail transit or any of the subway lines that connect the city to the terminal. You could even sneak outside and take a cab. Inside the terminal you will find two levels of concourses. At the entrance to each concourse are walls of lockers. Rent a locker in upper concourse BB for twenty-four hours and stash the key and instructions inside. I’ll meet you there under the lights and in plain view of security. You give me the locker key then catch your bus; after you’ve been on the road for an hour you call me on a disposable cell phone and tell me what locker the key opens.”

  “Wow. Good plan.”

  “Tomorrow then, at the bus station you give me the key,” McClure said, scooping the pictures together and placing them in a neat stack.

  “What if I need another day to find out what the key opens?”

  In a cold and precise way he said, “Then you go to the chair for the murder of a Midtown cop.”

  “But you won’t get the object.”

  “I have other avenues available to locate it.”

  “I see.”

  “Now polish up your demeanor and bring your ‘A’ game to the table for Clay. I’ll be here to personally monitor the interview. Afterwards, I’ll take care of your legal problems. You’ll be out in an hour; then find out what that key opens and call me.”

  “So where’s the other half of your dwarf team?”

  “Huh?”

  “Freckle’s buddy. Little guy with the goatee.”

  “I hear he’s taken an extended leave of absence.”

  Chapter 25

  Butler swung the door open and Priest and Clay filed in behind him. The war party took seats around the table, and they stared at Trent with an assortment of wary expressions.

  McClure set a miniature tape recorder on the table and pressed the RECORD button. He checked that the tape was turning and spoke the date and time, where they were, and who was in the room. Then he rubbed his clean-cut neck and waited.

  “I know my constitutional rights,” Trent said angrily. “I want a lawyer; even then I might not talk.”

  Clay spoke through clenched teeth. “You haven’t been charged.”

  “I’m leaving right now,” Trent said stubbornly.

  “Don’t be obstinate, Palmer,” Clay said, “or I’ll arrest you on suspicion of capital murder and put you behind bars.”

  Trent held up his handcuffed wrists. “I want these off.”

  After a brief silence Clay nodded at Priest. He stood over Trent and turned the key in the handcuff locks.

  “Is this a formal inquiry?” Trent said.

  “Of course not,” McClure said with a smile that said they were all buddies. “Just an unofficial interview among professionals.”

  “Radcliff read me my rights,” Trent said, rubbing the red welts on his wrists.

  Clay removed his wire-framed glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He nodded at McClure and said, “That was a formality.”

  McClure led the inquisition. First he opened a leather-bound notebook at a page marked by a glossy color photograph. He handed Trent the picture. “This man was murdered in your apartment,” he said in a chummy tone. “Recognize him?”

  The mockery was evident and if Trent had had a gun, he would have considered shooting McClure where he sat. “His name was Winston.”

  “What do you know about his death?”

  “What you’ve told me.”

  “No more than that?”

  “No.”

  “When did you meet?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “I rode out to the Whiskey A-Go-Go Lounge to question the Apostles. He was shooting pool with a biker named Utah.”

  “Is that where you got your face rearranged?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a knock on the door, and a key slid into the lock. “That will be Radcliff with the coffee,” Clay said, keeping his eyes steadfastly on Trent.

  Radcliff set a tray of coffees on the table. He glanced over McClure’s shoulder at his notes, gave Trent the gunman’s salute, then backed out the door.

  “You alleged,” Clay said, sipping his coffee from a paper cup, “that you rode out to the Apostles club. Why?”

  “I wanted to discuss the park shooting and kidnapping and learn Garcia’s thoughts on it,” Trent said to a host of disbelieving stares. “Hey, if anyone could use something hot to drink, it’s me.”

  McClure handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Because you were searching for Chloe,” said Clay.

  “Yes,” Trent said, devouring the bad coffee.

  “Try to see our side of it,” McClure said, noting that fact in his book. “You leave the Miami Police Department with a dishonorable discharge and pitch your tent in Atlanta; then you ‘happen’ upon a carjacking and knife one gangster and kill two with such pinpoint accuracy that it looks like a top pro knew their plans inside and out.”

  “And the next day you’re involved with the park murder and child abduction,” said Priest.

  “Any questions you may have formed about me will be answered at a Board of Inquiry,” Trent said, staring at Clay. “That’s the fair thing to do.”

  “And now,” McClure said, dutifully picking up the ball and trying to roll it forward, “Winston is murdered in your apartment, and you claim that a hit man was using you for target practice in Piedmont Park.”

  “Claim?” Trent asked, trying to find some firm footing in all of this. “You thin
k I’m making this shit up?”

  Clay spoke. “Everyone in my circle thinks that you’re a mischief-maker; and that you had some level of complicity in the shootings and child abduction. I can’t ignore the accusations they have brought against you.”

  “You can bring all the accusations against me you want,” he said, glancing at Butler. “Until I drove out to the Whiskey A-Go-Go Lounge, I had had nothing whatsoever to do with the gangsters. And I’m not a contract killer.”

  Butler looked at Trent as if he were something unpleasant that he had just stepped in. “We’ll keep you under observation,” he said. “If you’re up to any tricks, we’ll know; so you might as well level with us.”

  Trent held his cup with both hands and said, “What the hell should I have done? I fought off some cranked-up psychos on the highway. And then I found Maya searching for her daughter. So what?”

  Priest tapped a knuckle on his tooth and said, “How do you explain your proximity to each murder?”

  “I can’t,” he said, nodding at McClure and motioning to him with a finger to switch off the recorder.

  McClure consulted Clay with his eyes, nodded silently, then picked up the recorder and shut it off.

  “I’ve done some research,” Trent said steadily, “and I’m positive that you have a spree killer roaming Midtown; you think I’m that killer, don’t you?”

  He’d caught them on the hop. Priest was looking at his heavy coat hanging by the door. McClure rubbed his hands across his shaved scalp, and Butler frowned. Only the slightest flush betrayed Clay’s irritation.

  “I don’t think you’re that killer,” Clay said. “But, yes, we do have a serial killer working the downtown.”

  “If you can’t find him,” Trent said, “air it on America’s Most Wanted. They have a good track record when it comes to catching criminals.”

  The room remained silent.

  “The message on my answering machine,” Trent said. “Did anyone listen to it?”

  McClure consulted his notes again. “Yes,” he said, tugging on the tip of his ear. “There was no number on the Caller ID, though; we’ll have to ensure that you didn’t leave it yourself.”

  Clay ignored both Trent’s and McClure’s remarks. “Spill it, Palmer. All of it.”