Steven Womack - By Blood Written

I’ve spent most of my career trying to figure out what makes this kind of-person-work, and the truth is we can quan-tify some things. We can analyze some things and make some observations and draw some conclusions. But can we say definitely what makes Michael Schiftmann become the Alphabet Man?

“No, we can’t.”

Taylor Robinson’s face clouded over, almost as if she had gone into a kind of shock. “What am I going to do?” she asked blankly.

Powell lifted his drink and took a small sip. The icy vodka felt good on his tongue, in his mouth, and when it hit the back of his throat, he felt a gentle burn radiate out from his center.

“I want you to know,” he said, “that I don’t believe, never believed, that you were any part of this. You were his victim, too. Maybe not in the same way as the other women, but you’ve been hurt by this. And the important thing for you to consider is how not to get hurt any worse.”

“I’m leaving him,” she said. “I’m going back to New York tomorrow.”

“I don’t know if I would do that,” he said.

“I can’t stay here,” she hissed. “I can’t have people thinking that I’m still-that I’m still, with him. “

Powell raised his hands to his face and rubbed his jaw, the dry skin of his palm scraping across his now-past-five o’clock shadow. “You can’t go,” he said. “If you do, that may drive him over the edge.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“This is a sensitive, delicate time in all this,” Powell said.

“For one thing, the jury has seen you with him. They know who you are. If you disappear, especially after hearing the testimony that came out today, it could be construed as prejudicial.”

Taylor glared at Powell for a second, then, almost angrily, picked up her drink and tossed back another gulp.

“And there are other things at play as well,” Powell said.

“What? What else is going on?”

Powell hesitated. “I can’t go into a lot of detail,” he said slowly. “But as a result of what the police here have managed to put together, I think it’s safe to say that this trial will not be the only one.”

Taylor’s jaw dropped, literally. “You mean, other … ?”

“Michael’s DNA is currently being cross-typed with forensic evidence found at a number of other crime scenes.

They’re checking rental cars, hotel rooms, the evidence gathered at the scenes themselves.”

Powell shook his head slowly, almost sadly. “This won’t be the only trial. He’s history, Taylor. He’s finished. And if you leave now, and word gets out about the other places, then that’s going to push him over the edge.”

“What will he do?” she asked.

“He’ll run. He’ll run, and he knows he has nothing to lose.

And he’s not the type to let anything get in his way.”

“Can’t they lock him up?” she whispered again.

“No, he’s out on bail. He’s technically a free man. We’re watching him, all the time. But he’s smart. Real smart.”

Her eyes wandered back and forth. “My God,” she muttered.

Powell reached across the table and touched her hand.

“Listen,” he said, “I know you’re a good person, a good person who’s been hurt by this, and I know as a good person you want to see justice done. And you want to see that no one else ever gets hurt this way again, right? He’s got to be stopped.”

Taylor looked down at the table, to where his fingertips had just brushed the back of her hand. She looked back up at him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stay close to him,” Powell said. “Stay in his confidence.

If it looks to you like he’s about to run, or anything else drastic for that matter, you call me. Here’s my cell phone number. I’ve got it with me 24/7.”

He pulled a card out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her.

“Can you do that for me, Taylor?” he asked softly. “Can you help me make sure that he’s stopped?”

Taylor picked up the card and looked at it. It was glossy, shiny, with the FBI seal on it and embossed lettering. It was impressive, slick.

She looked up at Powell again, as weary as she’d ever been in her life.

“Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”

Monday morning, three weeks later, Nashville Like a political campaign, the trial seemed to go on forever.

And like a political campaign as well, the constant ebb and flow of power from one side to the other left each opponent alternately elated and in despair. The prosecution rested its case after a week, and for a moment, the defense was off-balance. Then Talmadge began his attack.

Experts-expensive experts-challenged every component of the state’s case. The evidence collection procedures, forensic procedures, protection of the crime scene: All were criticized and disputed. The defense tried to portray the police department and the Murder Squad as incompetent cowboys bent on hanging these horrific murders on anyone they could find because of political and public pressure.

The credentials of the TBI lab specialists were questioned.

Expert witnesses hired by the defense cast doubt on every aspect of the lab’s handling of the evidence and the conclusions that were reached. The testimony went on day after day, until the jury, the lawyers, and even the judge reached a point of exhaustion. Even the pool of reporters had dwin-dled; only the hard-core regulars showed up every day now.

As the trial neared its end, Forsythe pushed the attorneys to keep moving. The jury had been sequestered for almost a month. Two of the jurors became ill and were excused, their places taken by the alternates. If one more juror dropped off, Forsythe would have to declare a mistrial.

To wrap up the last of the prosecution’s rebuttal testimony, Forsythe held court on Saturday. Everyone had Sunday off, with closing arguments scheduled for Monday.

A dozen times, Taylor almost left. One night, she even packed her bags and made a reservation on the last flight out of Nashville. At the very last moment, she changed her mind and unpacked.

Most days, she and Michael barely spoke. As soon as court was over, she retreated to her room and ordered room service. She hid from the world and tried to sleep. Sleep had come easier the past few days; in fact, something in her sleep patterns had shifted and now it was not only easy to sleep, it was all she seemed to want to do.

She woke up Monday morning, the day of closing arguments, perhaps the last day of the trial, thickheaded and tired. The bags under her eyes had grown larger, she thought, as she stared into the mirror and tried to bring herself to consciousness. She had a standing order with the hotel room service staff to send up a pot of coffee, a croissant, and some fruit at seven-thirty. That would help. In the meantime, she had just enough time to get a shower.

Carey Talmadge picked them up every day at eight-fifteen in the morning and chauffeured them to court. She was on time and upbeat, as usual, despite the cold, gray day that awaited them outside.

“Where’s your father?” Michael asked as he slid into the backseat.

Carey turned, smiling. “He’s already at the courtroom.

He wanted to go over some last-minute things with Jim and Mark.”

At the front of the courthouse, the news crews with their trucks and portable microwave antennas were back in force.

One young, slim black woman was even doing a live remote.

It seemed to Taylor that there were even more news vans now than at the beginning of the trial.

Carey dropped them off at the side entrance to the courthouse, and they walked in quickly. As they stepped through the doors and approached the security screeners, Taylor heard voices outside yelling.