The Midtown Murderer Read Free

closed tight against the cold and rubbed his hands together to restore circulation; he detected a faint smell of whiskey mixed with the cigarette smoke.
    Radcliff drove slowly around the police barricades, the headlights reflecting from the paintwork of the police cars and shining off the glistening pavement.
    “ Your buddy Priest is a character.”
    Radcliff took a long sip of his coffee and coughed. “What do you mean?”
    “He can get in your face.”
    Radcliff chuckled and balanced his cup on the dash. “His nickname is ‘Mr. Clean. ’”
    “That right?”
    “Yeah. He was a captain in the Marines; he’ll gig you if your uniform isn’t pressed, your shoes aren’t spit-shined, your squad car isn’t tidy, etcetera, etcetera.” There was a sudden fierce downpour of snow mixed with sleet that obscured the glass. Radcliff turned the control to increase the speed of the wipers.
    “I understand.”
    Radcliff backtracked on the highway and stopped. When Trent got out, a gypsy cab foraging for a late-night fare stopped next to him. While Radcliff turned and quartered his police cruiser, the driver asked Trent if he needed a ride.
    “I’m good, I’m good,” he said broadly, scanning the trash pile for the purse.
    The cab was between Trent and the police cruiser, so he retrieved the purse and stashed it under the seat of his bike. Trent waved the cabbie away, and Radcliff fell in behind him. Snow whipped at his face as he drove slowly toward Midtown.
    When they arrived at the station, Trent ducked in the men’s room to empty the water from his boots and squeeze the water from his clothes. Then he cleaned the grime from his hands and face; after several washings, he could still smell the oily stench from the highway construction.
    Radcliff was waiting for Trent when he came out of the restroom. “ Let’s go, Palmer. Priest found a crib for you.”
    “I hope it’s warm,” Trent said, crossing his arms.
    “Priest will turn up the heat,” Radcliff said with a grin as he led Trent down the hallway.
    #
    It was past midnight when Priest took Trent’s statement in a long narrow room at an oval conference table. A large rectangular mirror hung from the wall, and a small window looked out over the parking lot.
    When they had finished, Priest looked vaguely convinced. “ Pen a summary of the events,” he said, opening the door and walking out.
    With his pen poised over the paper Trent said, “Yes, boss.”
    Trent had finished his report and was studying a laminated street map of Midtown tacked to the wall; a dozen or so angry red Xs were scratched on it.
    A rhythmic tapping noise out in the hall grew louder, stopped, then the door opened and Radcliff walked into the room. “Finished?” he asked Trent.
    “Yes.”
    Radcliff leaned over the phone and punched an intercom button. “Tell Inspector Priest he’s done,” he said to the speaker.
    “What’s with the map?”
    “Recent gang killings in Midtown,” Radcliff said simply. “Atlanta’s Gang Intelligence Division is headquartered here; they had an operations briefing this afternoon to discuss the murders.” He ran down the year-to-date stats for Trent. There had been thirteen killings in all. He attributed the rise in violence to a newly-arrived cartel that was vying for control of the lucrative meth trade.
    “These gang -related homicides are skewing our figures,” Radcliff said. “We have to add those numbers in with the local Midtown numbers; it puts this year eighty percent above last year. You’d think the James brothers had settled into Midtown.”
    Trent spotted a black plastic notebook lying beneath a chair ; the words GID CONFIDENTIAL were embossed in red on the cover. “How do you know what gang the victims were in?”
    “Arm tattoos or brands on their skin,” Radcliff said. “Maybe a criminal record.” He added, “An occasional tipster rings in.”
    “Has anyone been arrested for the killings?”
    “Not a single eyewitness to any of