The Midtown Murderer (15 page)

Chapter 36

He started with the first set of high-resolution photographs and found one that showed a
small concrete-block shed in the upper corner. Tracing his finger over row after row of pecan trees, he figured the structure contained pumps and equipment for a commercial irrigation system.

The two sedans sat on a dirt road at the bottom of the photo. The car doors were open
; three men stood facing the shed.

A fourth man
stood away from the group. He had something in his hand and was pointing it at the shed. The photo was angled such that Trent could see into the back window of one of the cars. Someone was sitting in the backseat with their head down. Male or female? He couldn’t tell.

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.

S
aving 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 GI
D chapter that chronicled the deaths of the four officers and read:

On August 13
th
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 s
aid 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 the
y 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.”

Bump
er 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.”