of. All across the country and one in Canada. He’s been dubbed the ‘Alphabet Man.’”
She shook her head. “No, I didn’t read them. I often don’t have time for newspapers.”
“I’m with a division of the FBI called VICAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, and I work out of an office at the FBI Academy in Quantico. I’ve been coordinating our investigation into this person’s activities and I’ve been working with police departments in places like Seattle, Milwaukee, Scottsdale, Vancouver, and two places in Tennessee, Nashville and Chattanooga. That’s among other places, you know. Is any of this resonating with you?”
Taylor Robinson’s brow seemed to tighten just a bit, but again, Hank thought, she kept a good game face.
“No, none of this means anything to me. Why should it?”
Hank leaned forward almost imperceptibly in his chair and looked her directly in the eye. “Ms. Robinson, virtually every serial killer does something to set his murders apart from everyone else’s. A common weapon, a motif, a sign, something … You look at a David Berkowitz killing and compare it to, say, a Ted Bundy scene or a Henry Lee Lu-cas scene; there’s no mistaking the differences. And while every murder scene is different, there seem to be common threads.”
Taylor Robinson’s face darkened and she seemed almost weighted down. “What has this got to do with me? I still don’t understand-”
“The guy we’re after has a very distinct signature that he’s left behind at every murder scene. In the victim’s blood, he paints a neat, almost artistic block letter somewhere in the scene. The first one was A, back in 1995 in Cincinnati. The latest two were L and M, and they occurred in Nashville just this past February. That’s how we know there’ve been thirteen.”
This time, Taylor Robinson’s face almost certainly gave away more than she intended. Hank sensed that she was beginning to get the message. Her eyes almost went into a squint.
“But wait, what’re you saying is that-”
“Letters, Ms. Robinson. The Alphabet Man. Get it?”
Her mouth opened slightly, her jaw muscles quivering.
“Just what in the hell are you trying to say?”
Hank let her hang there a moment, the silence between them growing heavier with each breath. Taylor Robinson stared at him, her jaw and chest tight, her hands on the desk, knotted into tight fists.
“What I’m trying to say, Ms. Robinson,” Hank said softly, breaking the terrible silence, “is that we think the Alphabet Man is your client, Michael Schiftmann.”
Hank Powell knew the next words out of her mouth would tell him what she knew.
The explosion came a moment later. “You’re crazy!”
she yelled, slapping the desk hard. Hank wondered what the young honors graduate English major assistant outside thought of that. “That’s ridiculous! You’re out of your mind!
And I’m here to tell you,
“Ms. Robinson, if I could just acquaint you-”
“You can’t acquaint me with anything, mister, unless the U.S. Constitution has been finally done away with in the past twenty-four hours and I missed it on the TV news.
We’re still presumed innocent until proven guilty, right?”
“Yes, of course, Ms. Robinson.” Hank felt himself slipping into a defensive mode. This was not what he expected. Protest was one thing, but this woman was ready to go straight to war. “But if you’d just let me explain.”
Taylor Robinson jerked herself up out of her chair and glared down at him. “You have wasted enough of my time.
I don’t have to sit here and listen to this insanity and I’m not going to.”
Hank scooted forward in the chair. “Ms. Robinson, if you’d just let me lay out some of the facts for you.”
“The last time I checked, the FBI manual didn’t have a swastika on it. You’re not the Gestapo and this is still sort of a free country and you are in my private space. I’ll thank you to leave now.”
Hank stood up. “Ms. Robinson, you’re making a mistake here.”
“Now,” she commanded, her voice lowering and stone cold. “If you don’t leave my office immediately, I’m going to call my attorney, and if he approves, I’m going to call the New York City police and have you arrested for trespass-ing.”
Hank stood there a second, helpless. He held out his hands, palms toward her in supplication, and pushed the chair backward with the backs of his knees.
“Good day, Ms. Robinson,” he said as he turned for the door. “Thanks for your time.”
Once outside, Hank Powell walked down Fifty-third Street toward Third Avenue. He couldn’t make any sense of this.
He was stunned, confused. Here was this obviously well-educated, intelligent, sophisticated, high-powered woman who turned on him like a cornered badger. It was almost as if Taylor Robinson hated cops.
What Hank Powell did not know, and could not possibly have known, was that Taylor Robinson did hate police.
Hated them to the core of her soul …
CHAPTER 22
Taylor Robinson stood in the silence of her office, staring at the closed door. From the outside, she appeared calm, almost serenely so. But in her chest, she felt a pounding that, for a moment, genuinely frightened her. She fought to control her breathing, to loosen her neck and jaw muscles.
To stay in control.
She turned and walked to the window. Through the film of dust and grime, she watched as, to her right, the FBI agent exited the building and walked down the stoop onto the sidewalk. He paused, standing still, then shook his head and walked off in the direction of Third Avenue.
She stayed like that for what felt like a long time. Her mind went blank, as if the encounter with the FBI agent-
what was his name?-had caused something inside her to empty.
How long had he been here? She had, for the moment, lost perception of time. She gazed out the window to the traffic below on East Fifty-third. Behind her, she heard a door open.
“Taylor?”
Taylor turned. Her assistant, Anne, was in the doorway, a concerned look on her face.
“Yes?” she answered blankly.
“Are you okay?”
Taylor turned and looked back out the window. The sun was breaking through a layer of gray overcast, throwing random beams of bright yellow light on the street below. She turned back and faced the young woman.
“I’m going out for a while,” she said.
