Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  Haven was the key today.

  I would keep her close for the rest of the week. I still wasn’t sure if I should send her next week or not. I’d meant what I told her earlier. I didn’t want any new nightmares from her being harmed.

  She’ll stay by my side for now.

  Her being so close to me could cause other problems.

  Why the hell does she have to be so enchanting?

  As soon as I thought about her scent and that gorgeous face, all productivity left me. I put the files away and lay back on my pillow.

  Like I said. She’s a goddamn distraction.

  That soft voice filled my head.

  Stop thinking about her. Find something else to focus on.

  I pulled out my phone and turned it on. A bunch of ads came up for the Colors of Love. Apparently, the network would be allowing everyone to look at the first three episodes for free.

  I read over the summary.

  This is about the town founder. It could be interesting.

  I pressed on the first episode. When I spotted the slave auction, I skipped through it. Although I had majored in Criminal Studies at my university, I minored in American history. Unfortunately, slavery played a significant role in the country’s past. And none of it was bright and cheery.

  How much will they get right?

  On the phone’s screen, Tom Fullbrooke sat at the head of the table.

  I sighed.

  I guess I do look like him a little.

  His wife Jane Fullbrooke was on his left. His sons Tom Jr and Michael were on the right.

  Fanny held a porcelain bowl in her hands and brought it over to the table.

  The wife glared at her.

  This must’ve been the first night Fanny served them. Last weekend, I’d gone to the Fullbrooke Museum and checked out some of the artifacts within that bricked space. From there, I’d learned a lot about this town’s founder and dark history.

  Fanny may have started as a scared slave, but soon she gained some small power on that plantation. Not enough to free herself and others, but enough to survive. Historically, female house slaves formed very close attachments to their mistresses. Many of the mistresses used the house slaves to act as informants on the other enslaved. Daily, the house slaves reported back all activities.

  But for the women that cooked and waited upon tables, they served the slave community as rich sources of information, gossip, and warnings.

  Fanny had been the same figure on that plantation. I wondered if they would show that part too.

  Why did they decide to show this part of history, instead of another? Surely, there are more uplifting multicultural romances than this.

  On the phone, a young black child stood near the wall and played the violin while Tom and his family sat at the table and listened.

  They’ve got this part wrong, but I understand why the show would change it.

  Usually, the kid would have played naked. The master distributed clothing once a year and it was often at Christmas time. These items were apportioned according to sex, age, and labor. Children often went unclothed entirely until they reached adolescence.

  Granted, house slaves tended to be dressed in more modesty, sometimes in the hand-me-downs of masters and mistresses. Most slaves lived in similar dwellings; simple cabins furnished sparely. A few were given rooms in the main house.

  I knew from the museum visit that Fanny had remained in the Fullbrooke home. Not only did she cook and serve all of the family’s dishes. She was forced to take care of the master’s sexual needs late in the evening.

  Did his wife Jane know? She must have. How much will they put on the show? How much did Fullbrooke’s actions shape the people of this town?

  I watched as Fanny walked to the end of the table where other trays of food had been laid out.

  In the past, dinner was the largest meal of the day for the owner’s family. The mistress always stopped her work in the house or garden. The children quickly finished any schoolwork. And the plantation owner hurried out from his fields or departed from his office. Together, the family gathered at the table as the house slaves served the meal.

  Many mistresses required their slaves to whistle while they carried trays of food to the table. The theory was that a whistling slave could not take a bite of food. The mistresses feared that the meal would entice the cooks to sample because none of the house slaves ate the same food. They merely cooked and served it.

  In the show, Fanny whistled and carried dishes to the table.

  They’ve got this right.

  Tom’s mouth curved into a wicked smile. “And what do we have today, Fanny?”

  His wife Jane spoke up, “I selected your favorite darling—oyster stuffed quails. This should be mashed potatoes. Where’s the gravy, Fanny?”

  “I’m sorry. I will get it, mistress.” Fanny set the porcelain bowl on the table and hurried away.

  Tom watched Fanny rush to the kitchen. “Thank you for dinner, Jane. You have done well.”

  Smiling, Jane unfolded her napkin.

  It was clear the show had made Jane the villain, but there were more that should be labeled. Tom Fullbrooke was no hero. Neither were his sons. According to the museum, they grew up and followed in their father’s footsteps, raping and impregnating slaves all over their plantation.

  Colors of Love? This should have been called the Tragedy of this Country.

  I shook my head and considered shutting the episode off. But for some reason, I forced myself to watch to the end. I never had to be a slave or experience these injustices. The least I could have done was witness the atrocities of other white men, and do my best to never walk down that dark road.

  And would they show the truth of Fanny? The reason why many of this town’s black men and women celebrated her?

  Fanny had done more in her life than serve the family dinner and even have sex with her master late at night.

  The Fullbrooke slave’s weekly food rations consisted of cornmeal, lard, some meat, molasses, peas, and flour. Every Saturday, the house slaves distributed it to the others. The one nice thing that Jane Fullbrooke did was add fresh produce to the rations, right from her gardens. But many figured she only did it to have the slaves work better.

  Morning meals were prepared and consumed at daybreak in the slaves’ cabins. The day's other meals were usually prepared in a central cookhouse by an elderly man or woman no longer capable of strenuous labor in the field. The peas, the beans, the turnips, the potatoes were all seasoned up with meats and sometimes a ham bone. And it was all cooked in a big iron pot.

  Still, the slaves usually did not have enough to eat. Some resorted to stealing food from the master.

  And many house slaves like Fanny slipped food from leftovers in the kitchen. She had to exercise stealth and be very careful not to get caught. Harsh punishments awaited such an offense. Jane Fullbrooke would’ve rather the dogs got the remaining food than the slaves. But many Fullbrooke slaves of that time reported through oral tradition of how Fanny stole leftovers and extra food from the house every night. She kept the plantation’s slaves fed and did her best to never get caught.

  On the screen, Fanny returned with a silver dish and a ladle. “The gravy, mistress.”

  Young Michael whined, “I don’t like oysters, mama.”

  Jane frowned. “Fanny, fry him up some chicken quick.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Fanny took Michael’s plate away.

  “And give that quail to the dogs.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Fanny whistled as she rushed off.

  Jane nodded with pride. “I must say. She’s a good girl. She does what she’s told.”

  “You train them well.” Tom picked up his wine and took a sip. “Just try not to be hard on Fanny. She does her best.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  What a great guy? Is he really supposed to be the hero?

  The screen shifted to Fanny hurrying through the kitchen. Instead of stopping to place the plate of
quail on the wooden table near the stove, she rushed past and opened the back door. There, a slave boy stood outside.

  Fanny handed the boy the food. “Take it quick now and share with your sisters.”

  The boy grabbed the quail and ran.

  Fanny shut the door and set the plate on the wooden table.

  I shut off the episode, unable to watch anymore. What had the country come to? What was a show like this supposed to present to the world?

  Tom Fullbrooke had formed this area with hate and enslavement, and those horrid things remained deep within the bricks of every buildings’ foundation. How much had this all affected the town and its people? How much sickness? How much suffering and pain?

  In some ways, I wondered if Tom Fullbrooke’s brutality triggered all the events to even call these little black girls to be missing this year.

  The Angel Maker thought he was sending these little girls to heaven. Why didn’t he think they should stay on Earth? Was it a white man who secretly loved black people, but in a sick and twisted way—similar to Tom Fullbrooke and even Sean Thompson? Those men didn’t mind tasting a black woman’s flesh, but they refused to treat them like queens.

  Or was Agent Richards right about the Angel Maker possibly being a black man? Maybe he thought the black girls were too good for this planet and only God could treat them right?

  In the dimly lit room, I stared at the ceiling and thought over and over, hoping to find a solution that would fit.

  Chapter 12

  The Strange Fruit Murders

  Alexander

  Colesville, Georgia was smaller than Fullbrooke, and that was saying a lot. It had one traffic light. Their police station was barely three rooms. They didn’t have a jail and probably took their criminals over to Fullbrooke’s cells. It was a small spot on the map, lodged between the swamp and mountains. Not much crime. However, when a person killed, he probably dropped the body in the nearby swamp, keeping the murder rate down. At least that was what a few of the cops whispered at the station in Fullbrooke.

  Colesville had been a coal mining town—one of the few in the state. Their population represented five thousand people—seventy percent White and the rest Black. Within the bunch, there were a few people mixed with Asian or Native American descent, but no one in the town cared. I’d looked over the area’s information. They’d kept all details and history, Black and White. No other ethnic groups held any importance.

  In the 1920s, a nun founded the Colesville Colored School. Forty years later, it became the main location for the Klu Klux Klan’s kidnappings. After school finished, the men would take a girl from the school’s playground. They did this every month. God only knew what they did to her. A week later, they hung the girl from a tree in her family’s front yard and left her there.

  I’d discovered that small amount of information from the internet.

  Colesville is just as backwards and out of date as Fullbrooke. I’m surprised they still have the files for the missing girls.

  Currently, Haven and I headed to the police station to meet with the Sheriff and look over the old cases. Today, she wore a dark blue suit similar to mine, but without the tie. While I probably looked fine and mine, she’d taken my breath away. The slacks formed around those curvy thighs just right. The white buttoned-down shirt did nothing to hide her sexy bosom. And the jacket covered the gun in the holster but didn’t conceal her hips or slim waist.

  Pay attention to the case, not her hips.

  Driving us into Colesville, I glanced her way and couldn’t help but enjoy the view. “This could be a huge breakthrough.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  “Weeks ago, when we arrived in Fullbrooke, we asked Sheriff Michaelson about past cases that were similar to the Fullbrooke Six. He never mentioned this one or Reverend Thompson’s family involvement.”

  “I’m not shocked. Sheriff Michaelson and Reverend Thompson used to be buddies. I’m sure they still are. Sean said that Sheriff Michaelson stopped by the house to report one of the missing girls.”

  I gripped the steering wheel tight. “The worst part of investigating a case in a small town is the buddy-buddy system. People protecting each other and hiding clues that they don’t think relate.”

  “Fullbrooke is going to have a lot of that. I doubt Colesville will be even better. A lot of Thompson and his bunch came from this town.”

  “And why did they leave?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my mother. She’s from Fullbrooke, but my father came from Colesville. To think about it, a lot of people moved over. If I remember correctly two new plants opened up in Fullbrooke. Perhaps, that was it.”

  “It makes sense. Everybody went to Fullbrooke due to more jobs.”

  We hit the police station. I parked. Only four police cars were outside. I climbed out. Haven followed.

  A female police officer sat at a desk. She had strawberry red hair and long red nails. She fixed her black glasses and studied us. “You here about the Strange Fruit murders?”

  Haven grimaced. “Excuse me?”

  “The dead black girls from the 1970s.”

  Haven’s expression didn’t brighten. “You all call them the Strange Fruit murders?”

  “The men always nailed the poem to the tree after they hung the girl. Due to that, the news started calling them the Strange Fruit murders. Have you ever heard of the song?”

  “What?” Haven lay her hand against the desk.

  The clerk glanced at me and then Haven. “That song by Billie Holiday.”

  “Yes,” Haven said. “I heard of the song.”

  “A white man wrote the poem, Strange Fruit.” She sighed. “Well, he was Jewish but still. People give that Billie Holiday all the credit.”

  Haven looked close to cursing her out.

  Clearing my throat, I showed her my badge. “We’re here to talk to Sheriff Bran.”

  The clerk narrowed her eyes and then she picked up the phone. Seconds later, she smiled. “Those agents are here. Yes, sir. A black and white one.”

  “Wow.” Haven rolled her eyes.

  “I’ll tell them.” When she hung up, a creak sounded on the right.

  Haven and I turned that way.

  An old man strolled toward us. He was tall, thin, and with a mop of red-blond hair that mingled with gray. He held a small can in his right hand. His dark blue uniform was perfectly straight. His gold star glinted against the material. Instead of looking my way, he stared at Haven and chewed something. Black liquid crept from the corner of his mouth.

  He must be chewing tobacco.

  He spat black gunk into the can and grinned at Haven. “Are you FBI too?”

  Haven pulled out her badge. “Yes, I’m Agent Barron.”

  Sheriff Bran spat again and wiped his mouth. His blue eyes dipped to the badge and then met hers. The briefest curl lifted his thin lips. “Don’t get many of your kind over here.”

  Her words came out smooth and easy. “My kind?”

  His smile deepened. “The FBI. . .Of course. What else could I have meant?”

  I ended the idiot’s banter and showed him my badge too. “Special Agent Alexander King. I believe you were contacted by Agent Stein. We need to see the criminal records for the 1970’s case of the dead girls from Colesville Colored School.”

  A scowl covered his face. Seconds later, he fixed the expression. “You’re in Fullbrooke for a serial killer. I don’t see how our old case relates.”

  “That’s none of your concern.” I put my badge up.

  “You can look over the files, but I would rather you stay put in here.” He chewed some more and then spit. “We don’t need you two bringing up old memories around town that makes everyone sad.”

  I was sure my tone came out sharp. “We will do what’s necessary.”

  The sheriff gave a grim nod and pointed to the door behind us. “The files are in the other room on the table.”

  We walked off in his direction. I opened the door. Have
n entered. Several old, yellowed boxes sat on a long table.

  Sheriff Bran called after us. “Enjoy your reading, agents.”

  Haven rolled her eyes and sat down at the chair near the end of the table. “This is a merry place.”

  “You never came here when you were a kid?”

  “My father always warned me to stay far away from Colesville.”

  “I can see why. Not a loving bunch.”

  We spent the next hours studying the old case files. There were tons of witness accounts.

  In the beginning, Chester Thompson and his friends took a black girl on every first Friday of the month. And it wasn’t a subtle event. Donning white hoods, they would race up to the school, loud and causing chaos. Next, they shoved away the teachers, nuns, and any others that got in their way. The girls would flee, and the grown men chased them around, picking one to take away. By the next Sunday morning, the girl’s parents discovered her dead and hanging from a tree in their front yard.

  The pictures turned my stomach.

  On the third month, the nuns and black folks were hip to the Klan’s schedule. People didn’t allow their daughters to go to school on Fridays. So, Chester Thompson changed to Monday and the next month Tuesday and so on and so on, terrorizing everyone more.

  Six girls met this terrible fate. It took several civil rights leaders and politicians to step in and force the Colesville police to arrest the men.

  Cursing every few minutes, Haven scribbled down tons of details. By the third hour, her notebook was full, and her eyes had watered.

  She should take a break.

  I wanted to tell her, but I could see all over her face that if I did, she would curse me out.

  She’s too close to this.

  For me, I was horrified by the information and saddened even more. What kind of men could do this to little girls? What type of people would allow this to go on in a town for so long?

  I can’t be soft with her. I have to treat her like I would any other agent.

  I studied Haven. “What are your thoughts on this?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not anything like our case, but it could easily be related.” She scribbled something.