The Midtown Murderer Read Online Free PDF Page A

front to back. Trent swung again and again, mesmerized by the wet thud of the blows to the thug’s skull.
    Trent was tackled by officers before he killed Largo. He was placed in a jail cell, and by the time the handcuffs were removed, the Chief of Police had fired him from the force.
    And then Trent got hit with a knockout blow-a blow so overpowering that three hundred and ninety-six days later he was still struggling to regain his balance. The day before he was released from jail, Sylvia was found in their apartment bathroom hanged with an extension cord. His mind kept returning to the autopsy picture the police had showed him. The thugs didn’t rape or shoot her. They’d beat her to death then hung her. Trent swore that Largo had ordered her murder, but the police were backlogged and put no real effort into her investigation.
    Trent had gone often into the closet where she had died, for this is where he knew he was closest to her. He would hold out his hands and imagine himself caressing and kissing her. One day he took his gun in the closet, intent on putting a bullet through his brain. He knew he had hit rock bottom, not because he had contemplated suicide, but because he had ample nerve to pull the trigger. That day he entered a treatment program.
    When Trent had pieced together enough of his life to function on his own, he left Miami and wandered. Realizing that he could never mourn Sylvia enough to sooth his aching heart, he settled in Atlanta. It was a big city full of action and strangers and noise. But it was the noise that he wanted most. For he knew that it is only when one is happy and at peace that one can bear silence.
    Trent ’s phone purred. There was a text message waiting for him. It read: ‘Sylvia was a great time. Be seeing you soon! The Kings.’
    He texted back: ‘Send every guy you got. Bring a fucking army. You’ll need it.’
    Trent fell asleep reading an Internet article on how to entirely become someone else while laying the groundwork to permanently depart from parts known.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 9
    It was somewhere around 5:00 A.M., and Trent’s nightmare of last night’s events had his heart pounding and his head spinning and it took him a few moments to sort out where he was and realize that someone was knocking on his door.
    He got up, pulled on a pair of jeans, and squeezed a look through the peephole. There were three people standing close together so they would show up well in the lens; two uniformed officers with shaved heads stood with their hands behind their backs, and a man wearing an expensive fur-lined cashmere overcoat and leather gloves was holding an ID up high to catch the entrance light.
    “Midtown police for Mr. Palmer,” the man called, just loud enough for Trent to hear him through the door.
    “He’s not here,” Trent said in a whiskey baritone.
    “Any idea when he’ll be back?”
    “Not sure, sir. I’m the building janitor.”
    “Open the door please.”
    “I’m not authorized to allow anyone into any office in this building; I can write down a name and number and leave it on his desk.”
    Trent could hear whispering from the other side of the door. There was silence then-
    Crack! The wood frame around the lock splintered, dust filled the air, and the door smashed open. Trent stood back as the trio trooped in.
    T he baby-faced cops were short and compact and full of subdued menace. One had a black goatee that clung to his lips and chin; he carried a twenty-five pound steel battering ram. The other was a freckly African American with a buzz cut; he cradled a cut-down shotgun. They were dressed in tan Midtown police uniforms with dark coats and tall boots polished to a mirror shine. The third man with wide shoulders and close cropped hair pulled the shattered door shut as far as it would go, then wandered around the office admiring the furnishings.
    G oatee feinted a blow at Trent with the swing-arm and said, “Crash and bash! Your tax dollars hard at