Steven Womack - By Blood Written

Taylor’s face went blank for a moment, as if she’d left the room for now but would be back later to claim her body.

“This is all happening so fast,” she murmured.

Michael’s forehead knitted up into hard wrinkles. “Hey,”

he said softly. “Something the matter?”

Taylor abruptly stood, almost jumped, out of the chair and walked over toward the sofa. She stopped in the middle of the room, turned and faced him, and looked at him hard.

“We have to talk,” she said.

Michael stared back at her for a moment. “Sounds serious.”

She nodded. “Yesterday, in my office, this man came to see me. He was from the FBI.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “FBI? You sure?”

Taylor nodded again. “I saw his badge, his credentials.

He’s an FBI agent in charge of an investigation. And he was asking me questions.”

“Questions? What kind of questions?”

“About you, Michael.” Taylor’s voice dropped off, silence hanging uncomfortably between them.

“What about me?” Michael asked, his voice a low monotone.

Taylor’s eyes started burning again, whether from lack of sleep or stress or a combination of both, she couldn’t tell.

But she felt herself tearing up and made herself fight the welling up behind her eyes. She turned away from Michael for a moment.

“I don’t even know how to say it,” she said.

Michael got off the chair and started toward her. She held out a hand, palm toward him. He stopped.

“Just say it,” he said.

She turned back to him, shaking her head. “This is crazy.

I almost want to laugh, but I also want to scream. I just want to scream my goddamn head off. Michael, he says you’re a murderer. He says you’ve been traipsing around the country killing women.”

Michael Schiftmann stood there, stock-still, for what seemed like a long time, his hands at his side, his face expressionless.

“The Alphabet Man,” he whispered.

Taylor sucked in a huge gulp of air and almost started to choke. “You? How did you- How did you know?”

Michael sighed, a long, weary release of air and tension that seemed to fill the room. “Where do you think I get the plots for the Chaney novels?”

Taylor squinted at him, her arms wrapped around herself now, clenching and holding herself tightly. “What? What did you say?”

“I said,” Michael spoke louder, “that the plots to the Chaney novels are based on the Alphabet Man murders. I’ve been following this guy for years. I’m fascinated by him.

Hell, I’m obsessed by him. I have a book carton full of clip-pings and research I’ve done on the guy. This FBI moron has got it exactly one hundred and eighty degrees back-as-swards. I’m not the Alphabet Man. I just rip him off to sell books.”

Taylor’s jaw dropped. “You mean that you-?”

“I’m embarrassed,” Michael said. “I’m not the creative genius, the artist, the guy with the original story. I’m just a hack writer who takes real life, embellishes it, and throws it out there to the public, who gets suckered into buying it.”

Taylor dropped her arms to her side and started laughing.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re not a killer.”

“No, I’m just a hack.”

She came to him, arms outstretched. He took her in his arms and held her tight as she laughed almost hysterically.

“I’ve never been happier in my life to be with a hack.”

“Oh, great,” Michael said, laughing now. “Thanks for being so agreeable.”

She put her hands on his chest and pushed herself away.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a hack and you know it. Every great writer, up to and including Shakespeare, has based fiction on actual events.”

Suddenly Taylor’s face went stern, dark. “But that makes me even crazier, that that stupid bastard from the FBI would come around here slinging that kind of crap around. We ought to sue him! Sue ‘em right now!”

Michael, grinning, shook his head. “No, that’d be the worst thing we could do. Why draw attention to this and give them the satisfaction? They can’t prove a damn thing.

They’re just desperate. Like I said, I’ve been following this case for years, and I’ve managed to dig up some insider stuff through contacts here and there. This is a political hot potato for these guys. It’s making them look real bad.”

“Yeah,” Taylor agreed. “They’re just desperate.”

Relieved, she came to him again and settled into his arms.

He held her tightly, his arms around her, the two of them rocking gently back and forth.

“If we do nothing,” Taylor whispered. “This will just go away.”

Michael Schiftmann pulled her even tighter. As he held her, he stared at the exposed brick wall that made up one whole side of Taylor’s loft.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “This will all go away. Don’t you worry.”

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.”