By Blood Written

“I need to see you, Agent Powell. Please. Where are you staying? I’ll come to your hotel.”

“Well,” Powell said, hesitating. “All right. I’m staying at the Doubletree Hotel, over on Fourth Avenue a few blocks down from the courthouse. There’s a small bar in the lobby.

It’s usually not very crowded. We can get a table and talk.”

“Fine,” Taylor said, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Taylor climbed out of the taxi, handed the driver a twenty, and walked quickly into the Doubletree Hotel. She stood there, scanning the lobby, and spotted a small, open-air lounge. At a table for two in the farthest corner, she recognized Powell sitting alone, in a pair of khakis and a white, button-down collar Oxford cloth shirt. He looked more relaxed than in the courtroom, she thought, almost preppie.

She walked past the half dozen or so others in the bar and over to his table. He stood up as she approached.

“Good evening,” he said. “How are you, Ms. Robinson?”

Taylor pulled her coat off and folded it over the back of the chair at the empty table next to them, then rearranged a chair so her back would be to the lobby and sat down.

“I’m terrible, Agent Powell, if you must know. I’m terrible.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if it ought to be obvious to him.

“I understand,” Powell said. “I think anyone would be.”

Taylor shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. She found herself avoiding eye contact with him, looking around the room, at the heavy red draperies, the red carpet, all the usual upscale hotel decor.

A cocktail waitress in a short skirt and a blouse with puffy sleeves approached. “May I get you something?” she asked.

Taylor looked over at Powell. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I’m having a vodka martini.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Taylor said. “Sign me up.”

Powell held up two fingers. “Make it two.”

The waitress walked away. Taylor watched her for a few seconds, then turned to Powell. “Now that I’m here,” she said, “I don’t exactly know what to say.”

Powell eyed her coolly. “Does he know you’re here?”

Taylor shook her head. “We’re in separate rooms.”

Powell lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Have been for months. The stress, I think. Neither of us are sleeping well, or very much.”

Powell nodded, understanding. “But he’s still living in your co-op?”

Taylor looked at him. “For the time being.”

The waitress brought their drinks over and set them on the small table. As soon as she walked away, Taylor picked hers up and took a long sip. Powell watched as she gulped.

“You did need that,” he commented.

She set the drink down, her eyes watering. She lowered her head, almost hiding her face from him. A single tear ran along her cheek, and she brushed it away.

“Goddamn it,” she muttered. Then she raised her head and looked Powell directly in the eye. “He did it, didn’t he?”

she said, her voice low, intense.

Powell studied her for a moment. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“He did it.”

She put her left elbow on the table, her arm bent, and buried her face in her open palm. Her whole body seemed to shake for a second.

“I slept with him,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“I had sex with him. My God, what he did to those poor girls.”

“You didn’t know,” Powell said. “You didn’t know.”

“How can anybody do that?” she asked, raising her head.

“How can anyone be two so completely different people?”

“That’s the nature of what he is,” Powell said. “I’m sure that when he was with you, he was completely normal and charming, in every way. That’s the way this always works.

They aren’t raving lunatics running through a crowded theater swinging a hatchet at people.”

“No,” she said, her voice sharp. “They’re much worse!”

“You’re right,” Powell said. “That’s it. You’re exactly right.

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.”