The Midtown Murderer

by David Carlisle

  The next photo caught a bright flash in the lower corner, but at that point the pilot had crossed the property and subsequent photos revealed nothing.

  Trent sorted through the batch of images from the second site and found one photo that had captured both sedans parked near another concrete-block shed.

  He studied the picture with his magnifying glass and was surprised beyond words to see a curl of smoke drifting from the building and a shadowy figure kneeling in a stand of trees.

  Saving the photos to his download manager, he hiked back to the audiovisual room. He played the FOX News tape again and used his magnifying glass; the resolution wasn’t near the quality of the high-speed photographs, but he was certain that no vehicles were parked on the access road.

  He turned to the GID chapter that chronicled the deaths of the four officers and read:

  On August 13th Captain Ramsey’s team raided a meth lab rigged with a hydrocarbon fuel, possibly Kerosene. The officers were in the building when it exploded. Their bodies were burnt beyond recognition. The perpetrators have not been apprehended.

  He turned to the bibliography and studied the credits. No surprise there, he thought. Butler had written the bulk of the report. He flipped back to the photos; each one had Butler’s name and the date and time that the image had been taken printed in the corner. That art department is on the ball . . .

  He looked out the library’s side windows. Cold water mixed with sleet ran like so many crippled arms down the other side of the glass. The pictures hung in his mind as he crosschecked the latitude and longitude coordinates Butler had provided for the scorched building against the coordinates Al had sent. They were the same.

  This new truth was puzzling. Butler’s reconnaissance photos had been taken at the other location a week before the explosion; but his post-fire pictures were at ground level of the building that had burned.

  He looked out the window again. His reflection looked back, smoky gray in color against the cold, driving sleet. Did someone accidentally insert a different set of photos into the report? Or did someone ingeniously make the switch?

  He dialed Butler’s number to see if he would bite.

  One ring . . . two rings . . .

  A man answered. “Assistant Chief of Police Butler’s office. Officer Roe speaking.”

  “Chip here from Gwinnett Aerial Survey & Mapping Company.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is the Assistant Chief in?”

  “No. He’s having lunch with the mayor. What can I do for you?”

  “On the thirteenth of August one of our pilots was mapping a pipeline northeast of Atlanta.”

  “So?”

  “He photographed an intense black fire. Well, last night I caught the meth lab report on FOX News and realized that fire was the one he had photographed.”

  “Sir,” he said in a lazy drawl, “we don’t need those photos. A FOX News helicopter pilot also captured that fire and we have the tape.”

  “But these images are different; in one photo you can see the site a second before it exploded. There are two vehicles parked on a dirt road and people pointing at the building.”

  “Those photos are police evidence,” he said in a rush. “We need them right away.”

  “I can e-mail them to you.”

  “No. I need the originals. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Flying Biscuit restaurant on Piedmont Avenue. How about if I put them in a large mailing envelope and leave them with the hostess?”

  “OK. But I need you to wait with the pictures. I’ll have someone there in five minutes.”

  “I have an appointment I can’t miss; really tight on time. Whose name should I write on the envelope?”

  “Atlanta Police Department and Assistant Chief of Police Mike Butler,” he said. “Include your name and number, the negatives, and do not mention this conversation or the photos to anyone. That fire is part of an ongoing criminal investigation.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Trent’s breath vaporized in a milky cloud as he jaywalked across the street to the Flying Biscuit. He waited until the hostess seated a party then laid the envelope on her desk. He sat at the counter which had a full view of the street, and ordered coffee and a bagel.

  He’d gotten through four bars of Mick Jagger’s ‘I Can’t Get No Satisfaction’ when an unmarked sedan with darkly tinted windows slewed to a stop in front of the restaurant.

  The air was still and cold as the passenger-side door opened. A small, slight figured plainclothes policeman wearing a parka got out. From this distance he looked like a sandy-haired, freckled faced kid. He ran a comb back through his hair then walked inside.

  The man retrieved the envelope from the waitress. Then she seated him at a table across the room. A minute later a thin man with curly salt-and-pepper hair came inside and sat across from him. Trent was sure they had no chance of seeing him; so he pretended to ponder the menu and peered over the top. He had never seen either of them.

  When they had been served coffee, the sandy-haired officer opened the envelope and pulled out the paper Trent had written on.

  PIG BASTARDS.

  CAN YOU HOLD YOUR BREATH?

  THEY TRY IN THE GAS CHAMBER.

  He tossed the paper on the table then glanced around angrily. His partner picked it up and placed it in his pocket.

  They pushed their seats back and walked out by the car. The officers engaged in a heated conversation, and Trent was sure that he witnessed a meltdown. Then they crawled into the car and sped off down Piedmont Avenue.

  Chapter 37

  Trent paid for his coffee then strolled down the redbrick sidewalk past shop windows that sparkled with holiday displays. Snow fell quiet and heavy from slate-gray clouds. It was too chilly for anyone else to be window shopping and he relished the idea of being alone.

  He pulled his coat tight and thought about the two detectives in the restaurant. They had made him nervous, made him more cautious. But mostly he was thinking: Maybe, at last, with the truth on my side, Priest will listen to me.

  Well, I deserve a break; before the crooked cops and gangsters get another one . . .

  He was about to call Priest when his cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Time’s up,” McClure said. “I want the key and the name of the facility the object is stored in. Now.”

  A thunderbolt of fear climbed up Trent’s back. “McClure-”

  “Cop killers never get away, Palmer; other cops take it too personal. You’re gonna take the fall.”

  “What if the other cops don’t buy it?”

  “They will,” he said, sounding normal and professional. No stress at all, just a decent cop giving advice to an ordinary citizen. “You have a criminal record, and you’re the principal subject in an exhaustive murder investigation involving the deaths of several Midtown cops.”

  “If I stick to your plan are you going to allow me to leave Atlanta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alive?”

  “You have my word.”

  “I want something else.”

  “What?”

  “I want my name cleared with Clay.”

  “It will be difficult; but I can clear your name with Clay.”

  “You better, or I might decide to keep the key myself.”

  McClure laughed. “With all due respect, I would strongly advise that you to stick with my plan. Remember that I can put out a finger and touch you any time I choose. And Jake and Elwood are as violent and as driven as I am; we will never stop searching for you.”

  Good point. Trent felt ill from all the stress.

  “Do you have the key?”

  “I have the fucking key.”

  “Do you know what it opens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. We’ll meet in the bus station upstairs at concourse BB; no weapons and no tricks.”

  “What then?”

  “Just stand there. Stand there with all the
people passing by until I feel it’s safe; then I’ll walk over and you give me the key.”

  “I’m missing something here.”

  “I’m not going to shoot an unarmed citizen in front of a bus terminal full of witnesses.”

  “You screw with me; I’ll kill you-you know that, right?”

  “That’s no way to speak to a cop.”

  “And don’t follow me or you won’t get the key.”

  “It’s not in my best interest to follow you.”

  Silence

  “Are we together on this?” McClure said.

  “Yeah.”

  “See you in twenty.”

  “I’m on the other side of town,” Trent lied, turning to obtain a better view of the bus terminal across the street that blocked off half the skyline. “Give me an hour.”

  “An hour and no more. What are you wearing?”

  “Jeans and a black leather coat with tassels on the sleeves,” he said, hurrying across the street to the terminal. “And a red knit cap on my head.”

  “Drive careful.” With that, McClure hung up.

  #

  The terminal was cavernous and comfortable. The overhead lights were bright and people were walking to their concourses. Along the walls there were potted plants set between small tables and soft chairs where weary travelers sat working on laptops or reading magazines and books. People were buying snacks and coffee from vendors, and people were sleeping on couches.

  Trent purchased a small locker in concourse BB for twenty-four hours and locked an old key from his key ring inside. Then he bought bus tickets to several destinations that departed in an hour. He was sweating from fear because there was no doubt in his mind that after McClure had the key that he would kill him. And he had no idea what to do.

  It was then that a big guy approached him. He was at least six foot six. Real buff. A solid 300 pounds. He was wearing furry white tights and pink boots; he had a pink face and bad teeth.

  “Hey, little buddy,” he said to Trent, like the skipper on Gilligan’s Island.

  “Hi.”

  “Got a few singles? I’m fucking broke; and starved.”

  “Sure,” Trent said, feeling generous. He dug into his pockets and came out with fifty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents. “Wish it was more.”

  “So damn grateful,” he said, holding out a hand the size of a dinner plate. “I’m Thumper.”

  “Trent,” he said, shaking hands with the gentle giant. “What’s with the outfit?”

  Thumper put on a set of furry rabbit ears and said, “I’m a professional wrestler.” He wiggled his head and the rabbit ears shook like palm fronds in a strong wind. “Fans go crazy over my ears,” he said, nodding at a couch where a giant with a prodigious gut spilling from under his shirt was resting quietly beside his duffle bag. “He’s my wrestling partner; we’re doing a show tomorrow in Birmingham, so we gotta raise some cash for our bus tickets. And food.”

  “That’s cool. Never met any of you guys before.”

  “Great sport; just no fucking money in it.”

  “You performed today in Atlanta,” Trent said, remembering that he had caught a glimpse of a wrestling match on TV.

  “That was us. It was a damn good show until the Midtown cops ruined it.”

  Trent perked up. “How did the Midtown cops ruin it?”

  “Three cops forced their way in the dressing room before the opening act and demanded a slice of our net. Fuck them we said. So in the middle of the show, they went back stage and strong-armed Hank and stole our gate receipts.”

  “Who’s Hank?”

  “He was our manager; now he’s in the hospital with a broken arm and a broken jaw. Two days before Christmas and we’re fucked but good. Never met such rotten bastards in my life.”

  “Can you describe the cops?”

  “Slick cop did all the talking. He had his hair cropped short, a square jaw, and shoulders cut from stone; he wore a fur-lined cashmere coat and calf skin gloves. He had on a starched white shirt with gold monogrammed cufflinks.”

  At the mention of the Midtown cops, the other wrestler joined Thumper. Thumper said, “This is Bumper. Get it? I’m the Thump and he’s the Bump.”

  Bumper shook hands with Trent. He was an Austrian with crew-cut bleached hair and cauliflower ears; his nose was crooked and swollen and red and there was bruising under his eyes. He wore a white tracksuit and was drinking a bottle of Yoo-hoo through a straw. “Slick’s partner was short and spotted like an African cat,” he said in his powerful Austrian accent. “Fucker kept smirking and waving a sawed-off shotgun at us.”

  “The cop who scouted out the office was a rat-faced guy with moon eyes; he had a spider web tattoo on his neck. If we ever get our hands on those pricks . . .”

  “I’ve got a Midtown cop story for you. And I really need your help.”

  Thumper wiggled his ears and said, “We’re all fucking ears.”

  Chapter 38

  The wrestlers listened patiently to Trent’s story. When he had finished the looks on their faces was that of astonishment at McClure’s level of treachery. Trent had given the wrestlers extra incentive, if they ever needed it, to be in front of him rather than behind him.

  Bumper’s face grew dark and serious. “How we gonna do this?”

  “I’m thinking,” Thumper said, turning to the wall in the Main Concourse where a giant LCD display listed the arrival and departure times for every bus. Dozens of people were stopping to look at it. “Concourse BB,” Thumper said, looking up at the board. “That’s where the Birmingham bus departs from.”

  “But how-”

  “Just a sec,” Thumper said, as a young man with short hair wearing his jeans low and sporting colorful boxer shorts walked by. “Hey, little buddy,” Thumper said to the man.

  “Huh? What?”

  “Wanna make a quick buck?”

  The man looked Thumper up and down. “You crazy?”

  “No,” Thumper said. “We’re trying to pull a prank on his brother,” he said, pointing at Trent.

  “What do you want?”

  Thumper nodded at Trent and said, “I need you to wear my friend’s leather coat and pull his red cap low over your head; then you stand in front of the lockers at concourse BB until his brother’s bus pulls in. Should be about thirty minutes.”

  “And?”

  “When his brother gets off the bus, he’ll see you and think you’re his younger brother. When he figures out he’s been set up, we’re going to surprise him and sing Happy Birthday.”

  “It’s that easy?”

  “It’s that easy.”

  “How much?”

  Trent said, “A hundred dollars.”

  “Wow. I’ll do it.”

  After the man had gone upstairs, Bumper said to Trent, “Rat-face will be the first cop to show; you never met him, right?”

  “No. Just the other two assholes.”

  “OK, then. This should work.”

  “We’re gonna drop the hammer on the biggest scumbags in Atlanta,” Bumper said.

  “Got that right,” Thumper said, grabbing his luggage. “Upstairs now. Let’s move it!”

  Trent thought the grim-faced duo looked like combat hardened veterans trekking to the firing line as he followed them up the staircase.

  #

  With zero minutes to go Trent was positioned along the opposite wall from the lockers sitting in a shoeshine chair. He was hiding behind the Atlanta Constitution sports page while a neat African American man wearing a red bowtie shined his penny loafers.

  A security door next to him opened and rat-face emerged from the staircase. He wore a knee-length blue raincoat over his black suit and carried a silver-handled walking stick. He almost brushed against Trent as he walked to the middle of the concourse and loitered while a clutch of gray suits, a family of Saudis by the look of them, and a Chinese woman passed by.

  The dilemma for Thumper and Bumper had been how to appear as small and inconspic
uous as possible amongst the many travelers. When a red-coated attendant pushing two empty wheelchairs passed them, Bumper gave the man a twenty and requisitioned the wheelchairs.

  While skinny cop scanned the concourse for signs of trouble, Thumper and Bumper were seated in their wheelchairs hidden amongst a throng of travelers that were studying a bronze signpost pointing them to the various bus departures.

  Rat-face surveyed the terminal for a few minutes then pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

  Trent buried himself a little deeper in his newspaper and dared to raise his head to take a quick reading of the situation. It was like watching a performance on a fully lighted stage; its backdrop the decoy Trent standing patiently by the bank of lockers listening to his iPod while Thumper and Bumper were wheeling toward rat-face through a crowd of Hassidic worshipers dressed in heavy black clothing with prayer shawls around their shoulders and prayer books under their arms.

  Rat-face did not see Thumper and Bumper approaching him. He shifted his eyes left and right then raised a scattergun from under his coat toward the decoy Trent. In a perfectly choreographed routine, Thumper and Bumper flew from their wheelchairs; Thumper seized rat-face by his neck and lifted him high off the ground while Bumper grabbed the man’s walking stick and clocked him hard in the head. The scattergun clattered to the marble floor.

  At the same time, Freckles emerged from a metal service door next to the decoy Trent. He raised a pistol and shot the man through the temple. A spray of blood and brain tissue erupted from his head as he dropped to the floor, arms and legs splayed like a dog asleep on its side.

  “Police! Police! Everybody down,” Freckles screamed, waving his pistol at the commuters in the crowded concourse. “Remain calm; stay down!”

  The frightened travelers hit the deck with audible gasps as the impeccably dressed McClure came out the same side door alongside Freckles. He knelt beside the dead man and pulled the cap from his head. Realizing he had been set up, he turned for the stairwell, but it was too late.

  Bumper recovered the scattergun and let loose both barrels in McClure’s direction. Bang. Bang. The shots thundered and the wall around the door exploded in a spray of buckshot and splintered wood. The force of the twin blasts lifted McClure off his feet and into the stairwell where he landed in a heap. He recovered quickly and kicked the door shut with his feet.