Steven Womack - By Blood Written

“Homicide, Chavez,” she snapped.

“Detective Chavez, this is Corporal Rogers in the lobby.”

“Yeah, Rogers, whatcha got?”

“Well, Detective, I know it’s kind of early,” Rogers said.

“But I got a lady up here who says she knows who killed those two girls over on Church Street.”

Chavez paused for a moment before speaking. “She for real?”

The front desk corporal lowered his voice as if turning away from the visitor. “Kinda hard to tell. She’s like this old lady, you know. Looks a little, I don’t know … Maybe odd.”

“Maybe odd,” Chavez repeated. “Great. You know what time it is, Rogers? It’s six in the freakin’ A.M. in the dead of freakin’ winter. Make her go away.”

“Tried that already, Detective. She says she ain’t going anywhere until she talks to somebody.”

Maria gripped the phone so hard her hand began to cramp.

“Damn it, I shoulda stayed in bed. Who was I to think I could get some quiet time around here?”

“I can’t answer that, Detective Chavez. Sorry.”

“All right,” Maria said, sighing. “I’m on my way.”

She hung up the phone, crossed the hall back into the break room, and picked up her teacup. She pulled the bag out and dropped it into a garbage can, then sipped the tea.

She winced; it was way too strong now. Maria forced down one more sip, then, disgusted, poured the rest in the sink and started down the long hallway. This was, she conjectured, not going to be a good day.

Maria pushed the heavy door open out into the main lobby and crossed behind the brick staircase over to the command center. Corporal Rogers spied her approaching and motioned with his head to the front of the lobby. Maria stepped past Rogers and through the metal detector.

An elderly, thin woman of medium height stood looking out the front window, her back at an angle to Chavez. Maria stopped for a moment and watched her. She had a brown leather purse slung over her right shoulder, and over her left hung a faded white canvas tote bag with the words MALICE

DOMESTIC printed on the front. There was something in the tote bag, something that seemed to put a strain on the woman’s shoulders. She wore a heavy checked overcoat and a pair of hiking boots with thick gray socks all the way up to her knees. Her straight gray hair was pulled behind with a red wool beret perched at an angle on her head.

Maria cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said. The woman turned. Her face was lined and pale; she wore no makeup and her eyebrows were almost completely plucked.

But her blue eyes were clear and bright.

“Oh, yes,” the woman said. “I’m sorry, I was staring out the window. I guess I’m kind of tired. I’ve been up all night.”

Maria stepped toward her. “I’m Priscilla Janovich,” the old woman said, extending her hand. The tote bag slipped down her forearm, causing her arm to jerk.

“I’m Detective Chavez. May I help you?”

“Yes,” she said, and as she did so, Maria caught a whiff of the old woman’s breath. Maria’s nose wrinkled for the second time that morning. Drinking? This early?

The shifting tote bag seemed to unbalance the woman, and Maria began to wonder just how drunk she was.

“Yes, you can help me. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Maybe I can help you.”

“Perhaps you should tell me what’s on your mind,” Maria suggested.

“Didn’t that young man tell you?”

“Well,” Maria said, shrugging. “Why don’t you tell me again?”

“Of course,” the woman said. “I know who killed those two girls over on Church Street. And all the others.”

Maria felt her brow knit. “Others?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “The Alphabet Man, I know who he is.”

Maria felt her stomach jump just above her belt line. This was the second time in two weeks someone had tossed out that name to her in the lobby.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Priscilla. Priscilla Janovich.”

“Well, Mrs. Janovich-”

“Miss, please.”

“Miss Janovich.” Maria corrected herself. “Why don’t we go back to my office and talk.”

“Oh, yes, I think we should,” Priscilla said, as Maria stepped aside and motioned for her to go first.

Maria escorted her past the guard cage and over to the heavy metal doors that barred the way into the interior of police headquarters. She slipped her ID out of her front blouse pocket and slid it through the card reader.

“This way,” she instructed.

She led Priscilla down the hall until they got to an interview room. “Would you like something?” Maria asked.

“There’s no coffee on right now, but a glass of water, a Coke perhaps?”

Shot of Jack Daniel’s? she thought.

“No, I’m fine. I think we should get to this.” The interview room was small, with a mirror on one wall and a small table with two metal chairs. Priscilla Janovich sat down in a metal chair behind the table as Maria sat opposite her.

“Is there anyone on the other side of that mirror?” Priscilla Janovich asked.

Maria smiled. “You obviously watch a lot of television, Miss Janovich.”

“Oh no, only a few shows. But I read a lot. Almost all mysteries.”

“Ah,” Maria said. “So you’re a big mystery fan …”

“Yes, that’s how I figured out who the Alphabet Man was.

After I read that article in the Sunday Times yesterday.”

“So that’s how you heard the term ‘Alphabet Man,’” Maria chimed. “For a minute there, I thought everybody’d read our case files.”

“So you are investigating the murder,” Priscilla said, her voice excited. “You know, I’m so glad they put a woman on that case, it’s just-”

“Miss Janovich, there are a lot of detectives working those murders, and we’ve had a lot of people tell us they know who did it. A few have even confessed. Not one’s been straight with us, though.”

“Oh, well, I am,” Priscilla said. “I know.”

“Okay,” Maria said. “I’ll bite. Who is the Alphabet Man?”

Priscilla Janovich leaned down and pulled the canvas tote bag up into her lap, then upended it onto the table. Four paperbacks tumbled out.

“Him,” Priscilla said, pointing at one of the books. “He did it.”

Maria stared at the pile of battered paperbacks. “Who?”

she asked blankly. “Who did it?”

“Him! ” Priscilla said, pointing. “Michael Schiftmann!

The man who wrote these books!”

A half hour later, Priscilla Janovich had finished her synopsis of each one of the four paperback editions of Michael Schiftmann’s novels. She explained that she’d read the latest book,

The Fifth Letter

, but hadn’t bought it yet since it wasn’t out in paperback. Priscilla went on to say in a moment of supreme irrelevancy that she was such a mystery fanatic she read her favorite writers in hardcover on loan from the library, then when the paperback was issued-usually a year or so later-she bought the cheaper edition and read the book again.

“And yesterday, when I read the article in the New York Times , I realized I’d heard all this before!” Priscilla said, her eyes beaming.

Maria looked up from the yellow legal pad where she’d been taking notes. “So you’re saying this guy commits murders, then writes books about them.”

“Yes,” Priscilla said excitedly. “He bases the plots of his novels on murders he commits. Oh, he changes the locations around and some of the details, but the substance is there.

You can’t change that.”

“Okay, so-”

“And the books are really good!” Priscilla continued. “I mean, I sat down yesterday afternoon and started rereading them again from the first and wound up reading all four in a row.”