Steven Womack - By Blood Written

Then he stretched and arched his back, trying not to look too odd, but needing to loosen up. He wasn’t used to being up this early, and the drive in from Chattanooga, over an icy and nearly closed Monteagle Mountain, had taken a lot out of him.

Andy Parks paced the lobby for fifteen minutes, with little to break the monotony. Arriving police officers, city officials, or friends of the guard’s were ushered past without question. Visitors were uniformly hassled and made to wait.

Andy was about to say something to the guard when the door opened and a young woman about his age walked through and into the lobby. She was perhaps two inches shorter than he, with dark eyes, skin only slightly paler than a cafe au lait, and jet-black hair.

“Mr. Parks,” she said, walking up to him.

“Yes,” he said. “Andy Parks, Chattanooga News-Free Press . Detective Gilley?”

“No, I’m Detective Maria Chavez. Gilley’s out in the field this morning. Did you have an appointment?”

“No, I came up here kind of on a spur-of-the-moment deal-”

“You should have gotten an appointment,” Chavez said.

“We’re really busy.”

“I know,” Andy said, smiling at her. She was pretty, he thought, and if it took being nice to a cop to get what he needed, he was willing to make the sacrifice. “That’s why I’m here.”

Maria Chavez looked at him without speaking, a question on her face.

“I came to talk to Detective Gilley about the murders of those two girls over on Church Street.”

“Oh, that,” she snapped. “We can’t say anything to anyone about that. That investigation is at a critical point right now, and we aren’t speaking to the press or anyone else.”

Maria reached into the back pocket of her black wool slacks and extracted a business card. “If you’ll loan me a pen, I’ll give you the name of the press adjutant for the department. When we have an announcement, he’ll put you on the call list.”

Andy took the ballpoint out of his shirt pocket, clicked it, and handed it to her.

“When might that be?” he asked as Chavez scribbled on the back of her card.

She looked up. “Not anytime soon, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t expect to hear anything soon.” Maria Chavez handed Andy the card.

“Sorry you made the trip for nothing,” she said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Maria Chavez turned and took two steps toward the door when Andy said, loud enough for anyone in the lobby to hear: “So, Detective Chavez, what are your chances of catching the Alphabet Man?”

Maria Chavez stopped in her tracks and froze. Andy could swear he saw goose bumps on the back of her neck. After a moment, she turned and walked back to him.

“What did you say?” she asked, her voice low.

Andy smiled at her. “J was two years ago in Chattanooga, then K was last year in Dallas. And you guys had L and M

early Saturday morning. Don’t you think it’s kind of creepy that the guy pulled a double for the first time?”

Maria Chavez’s eyes widened, and for a moment it seemed she was trying to say something and nothing would come out.

“Look,” Andy continued. “I’m exhausted, it’s freezing outside, and it’s pretty darn cold in here. Can I buy you a cup of coffee somewhere?”

Maria stared at him. “Do you know the city?” she whispered after a few seconds. “West End Avenue?”

Andy nodded.

“Centennial Park?” she went on, her voice barely audible in the cavernous lobby. Andy nodded again.

“There’s a McDonald’s next to it,” she instructed. “Meet me there in half an hour.”

Andy checked his watch and smiled at her again. She really was quite pretty. “Great,” he said. “We’ll be there in time for an Egg McMuffin.”

“How the bloody, goddamn hell did he find out? ” Max Bransford yelled, slamming his fist down so hard on his heavy wooden desk that the ashtray bounced twice before settling down. The ashtray was clean; the Justice Center had been smoke-free for years, but Bransford kept the ashtray around as a souvenir.

“Max, he ain’t going to tell us that,” Gary Gilley said, holding his hands out in front of him.

“It’s my fault,” Maria Chavez said, standing next to her colleague. “I’m not even sure he knew for sure that the guy painted the letters, but when he saw the look on my face, that confirmed it.”

“It’s not your fault, Maria,” Gilley said.

“Why did you talk to the guy in the first place?” Bransford demanded, his face reddening. He shook his head from side to side. “You know, I don’t need this shit. I really don’t need this shit, guys. I’m too old for this.”

“Lieutenant, I was the only one here,” Chavez explained.

She was trying hard not to beg, but she feared her voice was giving her away. “You weren’t here, Gary wasn’t here. And this guy was ‘Alphabet Man this,’ ‘Alphabet Man that …’

No telling who heard him. It was a judgment call and I had to make it. I had to get him out of here and talk to him to shut him up!”

Gilley leaned forward and placed his hands, palms down, on Bransford’s desk. “Max, we were never going to keep this quiet forever. It’s too big. I’m surprised they’ve been able to keep it under wraps this long. I mean, hell, Max, this guy’s a stone-cold serial killer who’s been working all over the damn country for years!”

Bransford sighed, then reached up with his beefy right hand, and with his thumb and forefinger began massaging either side of his neck just under his jawbone. He’d read somewhere that massaging in that place would bring down a heart rate, and right now Max Bransford needed that bad.

“You guys have been watching too many cop shows,”

Bransford said. “This is a violation of procedure, it’s going to make us look like idiots, and when the shit starts flowing downhill, I’ll try to stop it at my desk, but I can’t guarantee a goddamn thing.”

“Lieutenant,” Chavez said, “I’m sorry.”

Bransford looked at her. She wasn’t stupid, but she had been on homicide only a few months, and this was the first big case she’d ever seen. The first one of national scope that had come down the pike in a long time …

“When’s the story going to break?” Bransford asked.

Chavez winced. “Ten days,” she said. “Two weeks at the most.”

“One thing we’ve got going for us,” Gilley said. “At least it’s the Chattanooga paper. Nobody reads that rag unless they’re looking to find a coupon for toilet paper.”

“You’re fooling yourself, my friend,” Bransford said.

“We’re up to our nether regions in amphibious reptiles. The only thing you can do now is get out there and find this fuck.

Meantime, something tells me I better get on the horn to Hank Powell up at Quantico.”

Gilley looked across the desk at his boss and for a brief moment almost felt sorry for him.

“Want me to do it, Max?” he asked.

Bransford shook his head. “Nope, this’s what they pay me the big bucks for.”

Friday evening, two weeks later, Manhattan

Taylor Robinson stepped out of the cab in front of Brett Silverman’s brownstone on Twenty-fourth Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, across the street from the massive London Terrace apartments. She paid the driver and opened the wrought-iron gate that led into the tiny courtyard in front of the brownstone. Her coat was draped loosely around her shoulders; it had been a beautiful, almost warm February day in New York. The temperature had climbed into the early forties. Taylor smiled; it had been nearly three weeks since she’d seen the woman who had over the past months become her best friend. Only in New York could she ever remember going three weeks without even speaking to someone she was so close to.