Monday afternoon, Nashville
T. Robert Collier, now serving his seventh term as the District Attorney General for Davidson County, the Twentieth Judicial District of the State of Tennessee, could always tell when a situation was starting to get to him: The prescription medication he took to control his chronic gastro-esophageal reflux disease quit working. Even the blandest of foods, let alone the things he loved, like pizza, coffee, and martinis, would erupt without notice into the back of his throat like a volcano spewing lava.
As he stood in front of Judge Marvin Sandlin in the quiet solitude of the judge’s private office, he felt his diaphragm start to convulse in that wavelike pattern that usually meant an attack was imminent. He wished that he’d ordered something else besides the lasagna for lunch.
“Bob, you can’t be serious,” Sandlin intoned. “I’ve been an attorney for almost thirty years and in the judiciary for half that time, and this is without a doubt the most outland-ish story I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Collier nodded. “Yes, Your Honor, I agree. It’s a corker.
But I think we’re pretty solid on this one, at least solid enough to present you with the request.”
Sandlin, who had run unopposed for judge of the General Sessions Court, Seventh Division, a record four times in a row, leaned back in his high-backed leather chair and gazed across his desk almost in a kind of wonder.
“I’ve read two of the man’s books,” he said. “And my wife, who’s a bigger reader than I am, has read them all. She stood in line for two hours the last time he was in town to get an autograph.”
“And it’s our contention that after that book signing where your wife stood in line, Schiftmann returned to his hotel room, changed clothes, went back out later that night, and drove about twelve blocks to Exotica Tans, where he brutally murdered two young women.”
“My God,” Sandlin said, his voice low. “The man’s famous. He’s rich. He’s a celebrity. For God’s sake, he’s been on the Today show!”
Collier nodded. “I know all that. But he’s also a murderer and we’re just one step away from proving it. If you’ll just sign on the dotted line, Your Honor.”
Sandlin looked down at the paper lying before him on his broad, polished mahogany desk. It was a search warrant, demanding that Michael Schiftmann provide samples of hair, saliva, and blood for DNA analysis. Sandlin studied it for a moment, then looked back up at Collier, his eyes narrowing.
“And what has the grand jury said about all this?”
Collier felt his stomach rumble, and a heartbeat later, the acid taste of bile in the back of his throat. “We presented the case to them this morning.”
“And?”
Collier tried not to squirm. “The matter is still under consideration, but so far they’ve done nothing.”
Sandlin nodded, understanding. “I get it. You took your best shot with the grand jury and it went nowhere. So now you’re back fishing. I hate to disappoint you, Bob, but this case has all the earmarks of a first-class disaster. This is all supposition, hypothesis. You’ve got no witnesses to place the suspect at the scene of the crime, no fingerprints, no forensic evidence, no motive, no chain of evidence. All you’ve got is theory, and a theory that’s about as plausible as the plot to one of this guy’s novels.”
“But that’s it, Your Honor,” Collier said, his voice rising.
“It is the plot of a novel, his novel! This guy’s doing his own firsthand research into murder. He’s basing the plots of his books on murders he’s committed himself!”
Sandlin shook his head. “That may very well be true. I read the article in the Times on this serial killer, this Alphabet Man. But you can’t use the supposition and circumstantial evidence from one murder as evidence in another.”
Collier started to say something, but Sandlin held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Bob. But you’ve got no probable cause. Say I issue this search warrant and you get a DNA sample that matches the sample at the murder scene. What happens if his attorneys, who by the way will fear no evil because they will undoubtedly be the meanest sons of bitches in the val-ley, challenge the validity of the search warrant in the first place? Then you’ve poisoned the well, and the only thing that can tie him to the murders is thrown out, disqualified.
What happens then?”
Collier let out a weary sigh. “The guy walks.”
“Exactly,” Sandlin said, sliding the search warrant across the desk to Collier. “I’m doing you a favor. You know I want to work with you, and if this was just a quiet little everyday homicide, I might let it slide a little. But this case is going to be high-profile. We’re talking Court TV, Larry King shit here. You better get yourself right with God, my friend, because you’re going to be in the middle of a hurricane if you decide to run with this.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Collier said, picking up the paper. “I understand that. Believe me.”
“So,” Sandlin asked, shifting gears, “how’s your gut doing?”
Collier slipped the warrant back into his briefcase. “So-so. The over-the-counter stuff quit working and I had to go back on prescription.”
Sandlin leaned back in his chair, smiled, and rubbed his right hand in a circular motion around his paunch. “You should’ve had the surgery, Bob. I had my Nissen six months ago and haven’t had an attack since. You know they do it with a laparoscope now. Three tiny little pinpricks. Two days, you’re in and out.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Collier admitted. “I’ve just been too busy. Besides, I hate surgery.”
Sandlin smiled broadly. “You know, after the surgery, you can never throw up again.”
“Great,” Collier said, trying to hide the dejection in his voice, “something to look forward to.”
Since his first story on the Alphabet Man had been picked up by the AP, the New York Times, the Washington Post, and about a dozen other newspapers and television stations, Andy Parks found himself occupying a place several rungs higher on the local journalistic feeding chain. He’d parlayed the story into a transfer to the Nashville office, where the News-Free Press kept an office in Legislative Plaza. He could walk to the capitol or, if he was feeling especially energetic, all the way to the courthouse.
This afternoon, he was feeling especially energetic. As so often happened in this part of the country, the transition from a long, gray, dreary winter into a glorious, warm spring had happened overnight. Andy had gotten lucky and found a decent parking place in the lot on Capitol Hill. Rather than lose it, he decided to enjoy the walk.
Halfway to the courthouse, just past the Tennessee Performing Arts Center, his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open.
“Yeah,” he said, dodging an old lady on the sidewalk.
“I’ve got something for you,” a sweet, feminine voice said.
Andy smiled.
“Wow,” Andy said, grinning. “I’ll bet it’s something I’ve been wanting for a long, long time.”
“Silly,” the voice chided. “You have a dirty mind. I appreciate that in a man, but it’s not what I was referring to.”
“Damn.”
“But it is something you’ve been wanting for a long, long time.”
Andy held the phone tighter to his ear as a loud garbage truck went roaring by, belching black smoke. “Well, I’ll say this much. You’ve got my interest piqued.”
“Guess what the DA took to the grand jury today?”
Andy stopped, ducked into the entrance alcove of a gray granite building. “What? What’ve you got?”
“The Exotica Tans murders,” the voice said. “The DA had a meeting with the head of the Murder Squad on Friday and they went to the grand jury this morning.”
“Holy shit,” Andy muttered. “Who’re they charging?”
“Well, there hasn’t been an indictment issued yet, but the DA wants them to charge … Are ya ready for this?”
Andy gritted his teeth. “C’mon, don’t tease me.”
“Ever heard of a best-selling author named Michael Schiftmann?”
Andy felt his forehead scrunching up involuntarily. “Uh, yeah, I think so. Never read his books, but-wait? Are you telling me-?”
Andy shook his head, hard, as if trying to clear out the cobwebs.
“He’s got a series of books that are all, like, letters and stuff, you know? Like The First Letter, The Second Letter, and so on, right? And the guys over in the Murder Squad think this best-selling writer guy is, like, killing chicks and then writing about it. Freaky, huh?”
Andy leaned against the cold granite of the building and pressed his back into it. “Can you get me details?”
“I’ve got a CD with the transcript,” the voice said, in an almost singsong fashion.
Andy’s head whirled. He hadn’t read any of Michael Schiftmann’s books, but he’d read reviews, scanned the best-seller lists, had heard of the guy. He was famous. He was rich.
And he was a murderer.
Not only that, a serial killer.
If Andy could break this story, he’d be so out of Chattanooga, they wouldn’t even see his dust. He could see himself on MSNBC, CNN, Fox, maybe even one of the majors.
“Lydia, you are so yummy. I just want to put you in my mouth and let you melt.”
“That could be arranged, you know.”
“When can we get together?”
“How about eight tonight? The Blue Moon?”
The Blue Moon Cafe was a wonderful, yet out-of-the-way restaurant where Andy often went when he didn’t want to be seen with someone. It was on the river, the restaurant actually built on a dock in the water. You could eat outside, at dimly lit tables, and never be noticed by anyone except the person bringing your drinks and food.
“I’ll be there. Probably an hour early.”?
“Oh, and Andy?”?
“Yeah?”?
“This one’s going to cost you,” the voice said. “Five hun?-
dred, cash.”
Andy smiled. It was cheap at the price. He’d have paid ten times that. Dumb bitch, he thought.
“Sure, baby,” he said sweetly. “Cash.”
Max Bransford was trying to get his desk in order before leaving for home, even though he felt that making sense of the piles of paper in his office was a bit like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. Suddenly the door to his outer office slammed open and Gary Gilley burst past the secretary and into his office.
“They found it!” Gilley announced.?
“What?”?
“The rental. Schiftmann’s rental car. It was turned in by?
a client at the New Orleans airport. NOPD’s impounded the car.”
Max stood up. “Their forensic guys had a look at it?”
Gilley nodded. “They found some staining in the trunk carpet. They took a Hemident swab. It showed positive.”
“Hemident,” Bransford said.
“I know, I know, it’s just a field test. Doesn’t even distin-guish between human and animal blood, but unless some guy carried his groceries home in the trunk and his pot roast leaked all over the place, there was something bloody in the back of that car.”
Bransford stood there for a moment, and then a broad grin spread across his face. “Get on the horn to NOPD and tell
‘em to keep the car. We’re on our way to get it. I’ll call Collier and let him know. And then I’ll call the TBI lab and tell them to get ready. Oh, and I’ll call Hank Powell at Quantico and Howard Hinton down in Chattanooga.”
Gilley grinned back, then lifted his hand in the air. Max shook his head. “No high-fives, Gary. We’ll high-five when we find out the car Michael Schiftmann rented in February has bloodstains in the trunk that match what we found in the Mapco Express Dumpster and that it all came from those two girls.”
Gilley nodded. “Okay, Loot. If I’m gonna head to New Orleans, I guess I need to haul some ass.”