The Midtown Murderer (17 page)

Chapter 40

They drove northeast out of Atlanta into the Georgia countryside.
After the dirty slush of the city, everything looked white and clean, like a Grandma Moses landscape. The interstate was clear and traffic moved quickly.

As Priest drove,
Trent had to constantly fight an urge to look in the rearview mirror. He had little doubt that there was someone other than McClure at the Midtown precinct searching for him. And whoever wanted Trent dead had to know he had spoken to Priest; and that could mean he had set Priest up as a target. But there had been no choice. Priest had to go with him; it was the only way to convince him there was a conspiracy.

“There’s no one following us, Palmer,” Priest said with a grin.

Trent spread the map on his knees. “We’ll know soon enough.” After a while, he motioned for Priest to exit the interstate.

Priest turned onto a winding two-lane blacktop.
“Miles and miles of nothing,” he said, waving a hand at the bleak landscape of lakes and forests. Staring out his side window he added, “You sure we’re heading in the right direction?”

Trent
studied a large aerial photograph. “Yes. That water tower is right here,” he said, tapping the photograph.

“
You say so.”

They
reached a T-junction devoid of any direction signs.

“Which way?”
Priest asked.

“Right,” Trent said, as if he knew where he was going.

Priest turned and followed a dirt road that became a trail, and petered out altogether. He bit his lip and looked worried.

“We’ll find it,” Trent said, more in order to relieve Priest’s evident anxiety than because there was any reason to believe it.

Priest turned the car, careful not to get bogged down in a ditch, and they drove on in silence.

Twice more that afternoon they
took wrong turns to follow roads that became trails.

“One more
dead end, Palmer, and we’re heading home.”

Trent’s heart sank.
He chewed on his fingernails and said, “I have a feeling we are very near the site.”

“
You sound like a broken record.”

Trent
ignored him and indulged in a leisurely survey of the countryside. He thought of Sylvia and the warmth and memories of her small apartment that always smelled of fresh-baked bread.

He smil
ed at how Sylvia and her aunt would close the kitchen door when they cooked, their voices rising through the apartment, and mingling with the warm cooking smells. He would wait in the living room, and when the kitchen door finally flung open, Sylvia would proudly show off her home-made dinner. He could still hear the sound of her infectious laughter like a soft moving of dove voices. They were the closest and clearest memories he had of her, clearer even than of the day she died.

Trent
’s mind was occupied with Sylvia when Priest called his name.

“Yes?”

“I’m curious, Palmer, do you enjoy finding missing people?”

“Very much so,” he said. “It was work at first
. I had to solicit my services around town; but now I get most of my jobs word of mouth. I have the freedom to call my own shots.”

“Or get shot at
.”

“
Now you’re a comedian.”

The narrow road led over a rise and passed close to a
reservoir. Gray crusts of ice had formed along its rim.

Trent tapped the photograph.
“That’s the reservoir,” he said triumphantly. “The turnoff is right past it; then we’ll have a mile-long drive through the woods.”

“
We better find it before dark,” Priest said with a scowl.

Trent ignored him
. “Turn here.”

Priest
braked and turned onto a curving dirt road that disappeared into a forest of dense pines. The trees veined in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Trent
thought about the killers again. He was sweating from apprehension. What if they’re waiting for us? He wished he’d called Radcliff for a backup.

P
ine branches brushed the sides of the car as Priest negotiated several sharp turns and ridges that jolted the car to the point of damage. A few minutes later they came to the end of the road.

“It should be through those trees a bit,” Trent said,
tracing his finger around the burned-out structure in his photograph.

Priest made a U-turn in a small clearing
with a few deeply-rutted car tracks. With the engine switched off, all was silent, the forest soaking up every sound of their movement.

Priest
scanned the heavily-wooded property. “Let’s take a hike,” he said, pulling on his fur cap.

With Priest in the lead,
they walked single file down a forest path at a leisurely pace. There were blue jays and sparrows foraging for food. The clouds were scurrying away to reveal some blue skies, but a light snow continued to fall.

Fi
ve minutes later they stepped out of the tree line beside a small lake. Their appearance, and the noise they made, sent dozens of birds into the air with a clattering of wings; they circled low over the water, then disappeared beyond the trees.

Priest pointed at a
pile of rubble with a few scorched half walls jutting out of the ground. “That’s it.”

“Could have been a moonshiner’s shed,” Trent said,
kicking the hard ground to dislodge the mud that had caked to his shoes.

They were standing by the
structure now. The air of death that permeated the concrete-block shell was deeply depressing.

Priest must have felt it
too, because he touched the wall gingerly as he leaned into a scorched rectangular opening. “Can you imagine what the officers thought when it went up?” he asked grimly.

“
Hope they didn’t suffer,” Trent said, stomping his feet against the cold. He was imagining their final seconds trapped in a blazing building, knowing they were about to die. He looked at the gaping hole in the roof and whistled. “Fire punched through the roof.”

“Blew it sky-high,” Priest
said, stepping lightly through ankle-deep ash to examine the broken remains from another angle.

“W
hoosh,” Trent said, peering inside. Below the crumbling concrete floor was a dark hole that housed the well pumps and plumbing that had once irrigated the land. “Must have been a hot number to go up that quick.”

Priest
squatted with his elbows between his knees. “The killers flooded the basement with a pool of Kerosene; at least a hundred gallons. They were human torches.”

Trent pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lighted it. “The arsonist had to have been a pro
.”

Priest hung his head and traced a path with his finger in a clump of
dirty snow. “Lieutenant Ramsey radioed the station that her team had secured the building. ‘The lab is empty; the building has been secured’ were her last words. The officers were inventorying the lab supplies when it blew.”

“How do you explain the photo? If Butler was holding a control box
. . . and he detonated the building?”

“That’s the puzzle,” Priest said
. “But I’m not convinced it is Butler. And that call is way above my paygrade.”

“Maybe he forced her to make that call,” Trent said
. “Then he shot her.”

Priest exhaled deeply. “I don’t know what to think.” He took the photo from Trent
, then turned on his heel and walked to where the sedans had been parked.

Trent
gained his side. “What if Butler knew the chopper would pass by? Maybe he waited and then blew the building.”

“No. Someone called F
OX News and reported the fire. They relayed to the pilot; then he circled to film it.”

“That makes sense,” Trent said. “The killers could have been down the road
by then.”

“
Over there,” Priest said, holding the photo up to match the spot. He walked briskly toward the Pecan trees and said, “An unmapped fire road snakes past that stand of trees.”

“They didn’t count on that survey aircraft,” Trent said. He started to turn. “Let’s drive to the other
—”

He
looked over his shoulder and saw a figure shrouded in a heavy down parka the color of a baboon’s ass making his way toward him. It was Lieutenant Detective Butch McClure.             

Chapter 41

They stood across from each other. McClure was wearing a different suit under his parka, and there was an assortment of red scratches on
the side of his face where Bumper had raked him with the scattershot. Other than that he looked great.

“T
oo bad about your goon squad,” Trent said.

McClure
projected his head forward and said, “Too bad is right. Being involved in those cop killings was your point of no return.”

“Your point?”

“Point is this: You’re a cop killer; a dead man walking.”

“
You think you can get everything by fear. Not this time. I’m a murderer. You know that. And I’m not afraid to kill you.”

“
You’ll be dead soon enough,” he said angrily. “Besides, I’ve got the key.”

Trent
grinned. “You opened that storage unit yet? You can have any of the old stuff in there; just don’t take that barbecue grill. Great fucking grill.”

No answer.

Trent searched the ground and picked up a brick. He stepped aggressively toward McClure.

“Stay put,”
McClure said, pulling a Beretta M9 from his parka far enough for Trent to see.

Trent
dropped the brick when he saw Priest walking toward them. “Meet me here tonight, McClure. Alone. We’ll settle this once and for all.”

“What, like a duel?”
McClure said, pocking the Beretta.

“
No weapons. A fight to the death.”

“
No one will miss you when you’re gone.”

“
You’re a coward. And a murdering thug.”

Priest joined the
m and they stood in a neat triangle by a clump of trees. McClure gave his voice a sideways trajectory and said to Priest, “I had a flat tire.”

Trent shoved his hands deep in his pockets so the cops wouldn’t see how much they were shaking.

Priest rested a hand on McClure’s shoulder and said to Trent, “Don’t be frightened; you’re safe with us.”

McClure
nodded and said to Priest, “Find anything unusual, Inspector?”

“No. Not here.”

“I didn’t think you would,” McClure said crisply. “I’ve been over this place with a fine-tooth comb.”

“
Come with me, Detective,” Priest said, motioning McClure out of Trent’s hearing range.

T
hey talked and occasionally glanced at Trent. He licked his lips apprehensively and figured that if Priest was dirty, then this could be the killing moment. No one lives forever, he thought, breathing deep and examining the scenery around him, trying to imprint its beauty upon his memory.

After a few minutes
Priest and McClure turned toward Trent. With a note of exasperation in his voice Priest said, “Leave it to Palmer; he has one more stop on this sightseeing tour.”

McClure’s thin lips curved into a sly smile.
“No kidding? Where?”

The wind had sprung up, a sharp breeze that was frost cold against
Trent’s skin. He turned to face it and said, “I found an identical pump house fifteen miles from here.”

McClure seemed to contemplate his reply. After a moment his response
to Trent was: “How very clever of you; and what do you expect to find?”

“Palmer
’s trying to dig up dirt. He thinks he’s found the key to a deeply buried department secret.”

The corner of
McClure’s lips twitched nervously. “My car’s back this way,” he said, jabbing a thumb toward the tree line. “Give me directions; I’ll meet you there.”

Trent did
, and McClure glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex. “See you in forty minutes.”

#

It was late afternoon when Priest and Trent reached the second site. Very low on the horizon a blood-red splinter of sun spread its gore across the clouds and trees in an ever darkening overcast.

Priest slewed to a stop
at the end of a narrow road that became a trail. “The dirt looks way too soft,” he said. “We’ll have to hike the rest of it.”

“
Let’s do it.”

They
passed several hostile signs nailed to posts: No Trespassing. Private Property. Keep out.

They walked side-by-side in silence.
The sky was hard and clear. They left footprints in the powdery snow. It was eye-watering cold, and it was forecast to get even colder.

Trent
had been debating if he should approach anyone at the Midtown Police Plaza regarding McClure’s duplicity. He figured Priest might be the only one he could trust; he probed gently and said, “I saw McClure on TV last week; an action reporter was riding a beat with him.”

“That’s McClure
. He’s the department’s de-facto PR guy.”

“At first I wasn’t sure if he was a cop or not
,” Trent said, stepping over a tree root. “He had on an expensive silk suit.”

Priest
chuckled. “That guy never misses a photo opportunity or a chance to piggyback on the agencies success.”

“I figure him for an action guy,” Trent said, thinking back to the phone conversation he’d overheard at
the Midtown Police Plaza. “Someone who lives a lavish lifestyle; wheels and deals in stocks.”

Priest glanced at Trent
. “You’ve done your homework. The rumor mill says he’s heavily into day trading; something about buying and selling stock on margins.”

Trent nodded and he
wondered again if McClure had lost his shirt. And he sure liked to wear expensive shirts. He said, “On the way back to town I want to talk to you about McClure.”

Priest eyed him and said, “
More speculation?”

“
Straight from the horse’s mouth. Beyond any doubt.”

“OK,” Priest
said. “I’ll hear you out.”

They stopped in front of a spray-painted sign on a sheet of plywood that was resting against a tree.
It read: DANGER THIS BUILDING IS CONDEMNED DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED DEMOLITION WILL COMMENCE ON DECEMBER FIFTEENTH STAY OUT!

“What do you make of it?”

“Those deep-rutted wheel tracks we passed on the way in were frozen solid,” Priest said. “I’d say the wrecker couldn’t get past them.”

“
Probably so.”

Priest’s
cell phone chirped, and he turned to answer it. Trent was standing next to the boarded-up pumping station when Priest caught up with him.

Trent lighted a cigarette.
“Anything important?”

“It was McClure. He couldn’t find the side road to turn off on.
Said that as long as I felt safe with you he wouldn’t call in air support.”

Trent
pointed at the structure.

Priest gazed at the
concrete walls. “Riddled with bullets,” he said in a rush, running his fingertips across the deeply grooved and scared block. He put a hand on the wall as if to steady himself.

“You
OK?”

“Yes,”
Priest said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “The surprises keep coming.”

Trent stood with his back to the building and studied
the heavy growth of trees and undergrowth at the edge of the firefight. “Follow me to those trees.”

“
Lead the way.”

“Shots were fired out the window,” Trent said, concentrating on the
scared tree trunks.

“If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Priest said softly.

Trent held up a small branch. “Broken by a bullet.”

Then he pointed in the distance at
a newly-finished aerial. “It’s a cell phone tower,” he said, handing Priest Butler’s aerial reconnaissance photo that showed the building and the partially constructed antenna.

Priest’s face
seemed flushed from the stress of this new revelation.

The sun bled through the trees and
Trent spied something glittery on the ground. He pointed and Priest knelt and retrieved several spent shell casings from the drooping grass.

“Let me guess,” Trent said
, turning toward the building. “Ejected from a high-powered rifle.”

“Yes
.”

Trent
yanked on the door. It yielded, but shrieked on rusty hinges, the sound sending a tomcat slinking into the trees. He gazed into a medium size room with concrete-block walls and a low roof. There were fat old pipes coming up through the floor attached to hydraulic equipment that had once boosted water out of the ground for irrigation. There was grit on the floor and what appeared to be blotches of dried blood. The blotches were also on the scaly pipes and equipment and walls. Testing the air, he thought the interior smelled of mildew and a trace of gunpowder.

Trent
pried a mushroomed slug from a heavy-duty electrical panel with his penknife and tossed it to Priest. “The GID team was murdered here and their bodies were transported to the other site,” he said, mashing out his cigarette on the floor with the heel of his tennis shoe. “The fire was so fierce that forensics couldn’t determine how many bodies there were or if they had been shot.

“
But only three officers were toasted. I think Captain Ramsey was murdered separately, and that means it was a personal matter. My money says McClure dug up her body.”

Priest toed the dirty concrete. “It’s too early to speculate.”

Trent waved his hand at the bullet-riddled walls. Pretending patience he said, “Priest, you have strong, physical evidence; find the motive and you’ll find the killer.”

Priest
fished his cell phone from his coat pocket and tried to make a call. “Battery went flat.”

“Mine’s at home
,” Trent said, with a sudden violent shiver.

“
Time to head back, Palmer.”

Trent walked sedately on the narrow path.
Finding he was alone, he felt exposed and threatened. Where’s Priest? Probably stopped to pee. A frightful thought occurred to him and he spun around.

Priest stood several yards back
; he held his pistol two-handed, aimed on the center of Trent’s torso. “Turn around and put your hands above your head.”