Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  I checked her sheet. She wrote down all of the victims’ names—Olivia Lucas, Adele Jones, Mia Noah, Lily Miller, Leah Wyatt, and Ellie Garrett.

  She set the pen down. “Do you think we should talk to the victims’ families?”

  “Perhaps.” I looked through another file. “We could have checked with Chester Thompson and his other Klan sickos, but they’re dead.”

  “I imagine some of the parents may have passed away.”

  “But the siblings may still be alive.”

  She picked up the pen and tapped the end against the table. “The victims’ siblings.”

  “What?”

  “I was wondering if they could have something to do with this, but it wouldn’t make sense. If they wanted revenge for the KKK taking their sisters, why would they kidnap black girls many years later?”

  “Exactly.” I nodded in agreement. “It would make more sense to do this to white girls.”

  “So, then our Unsub could be a white person during this time that is reenacting the Strange Fruit murders?”

  “That’s a theory.”

  She twisted the pen back and forth between her fingers. “But why? Is he angry? Is he trying to make a statement? Why did Chester Thompson and his Klan do it?”

  I grabbed the file near me, pulled out his confession, and read it, “Chester Thompson claimed to be doing the Lord’s work, ridding the world of. . .coons that could breed.”

  “Jesus.” Haven wrote the statement down, although it was clear the words had brought her disgust.

  “Our guy is religious. Chester Thompson. . .apparently thought he was religious too.”

  Haven nodded. “It’s clear that our Unsub thinks he is doing the Lord’s work. But does the Unsub know about these murders?”

  “I think it’s a better theory than any other we’ve had.”

  Haven opened another file. “This is interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Sheriff Bran’s grandfather was the sheriff at the time.”

  “Lots of nepotism around here.”

  “Uh oh.” She handed a picture to me.

  I picked it up. It was a mugshot of a man that looked very similar to Sheriff Bran. “Who’s this?”

  “His father was one of the Klan men found guilty. He served time for the Strange Fruit murders.”

  I set the picture down. “With the way things were, I’m shocked that they went to jail.”

  “Too many racist politicians down here. But the upset from the voters changed their minds. It wasn’t hard to find them. The Klan members bragged about killing the girls.”

  “Not the smartest group.”

  “Not as smart as the Unsub.”

  I scratched my head. “Our guy dresses the little girls up, does their hair, feeds them well, gives them communion, and places halos and wings on their dead bodies. Thompson and his friends didn’t do that.”

  “There were bruises all over the girls before they hung them. The coroner believed there was. . .sexual abuse too.” Haven swallowed.

  This is going to be hard for her.

  She shook her unease away and pushed on. “Anyway. . .our Unsub didn’t sexually or physically abuse the Fullbrooke Six. He believes he’s caring for them. This isn’t a hate crime about color.”

  “But color is important. Have you noticed that our victims are all the same complexion?”

  “Dark brown like me.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Color is important to him, but he doesn’t hate it. And whether we want to admit it or not, there’s some form of love in his ritual.”

  Haven went back to twisting the pen between her fingers. “Sheriff Bran would’ve been a young kid at the time his father went to jail. He looked to be in his early fifties.”

  “Could have held a grudge with his father being sentenced and sought revenge, but. . .”

  “The care of our girls.” Haven frowned. “Sheriff Bran wouldn’t press their hair. I also imagine we would find chewed tobacco all over the crime scene.”

  “Yes. He’s very much an idiot.”

  “I was trying to be nicer.”

  “Not me.” I closed a file and set it on the pile. “Regardless, we shouldn’t overlook any of the Klan members’ kids from this town. They could be important.”

  “I surely won’t.” She flipped to the first page of her notebook. “I have all the Klan members’ names.”

  “Just in case. We must figure out if Sheriff Bran has an alibi for those evenings as well as any of the Klan members’ kids.”

  “And how will we do that?”

  “We’ll ask them.”

  Haven wore a skeptical expression. “I don’t see everyone telling the truth.”

  “Then, we’ll have to sniff out the liars.”

  At that moment, the door opened.

  Sheriff Bran stepped inside. Thankfully, he had ceased with his tobacco chewing. He smirked at me. “Did you enjoy your reading?”

  “We have.” I gestured to the empty chair at the end of the table. “I’m glad you came. I was wondering if we could ask you some questions.”

  “Me.” Sheriff Bran touched his chest. “About what?”

  “The Strange Fruit murders. You were there.”

  “I was just a toddler during this time. What would I know?”

  I pulled out my small pad with the dates for the missing girls. “I was wondering where you were on these particular nights.”

  “These dates are when the Fullbrooke Six were taken.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  Sheriff Bran laughed. “Am I a suspect in your case?”

  “No. I just find you interesting.”

  “Why?” Sheriff Bran sat down.

  Haven spoke, “Your father was involved with the Strange Fruit murders. It makes us intrigued about your recent evening activities.”

  “My father killed little girls.” Humor left the sheriff’s face. “So, that makes me guilty, agent?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “It just makes me curious about your whereabouts.”

  “I’m a sheriff.”

  Haven crossed her arms over her chest. “You wouldn’t be the first sheriff to murder girls.”

  Sheriff Bran pointed at the paper. “I guarantee that every date that you have, I can account for someone seeing me there.”

  “What about Easter Sunday?”

  “I was at the Tipsy Pig on that day. Many will say so.”

  “What’s the Tipsy Pig?” Haven asked.

  “A bar—one the best and few of this town. I’ve spent every night there since my wife passed away from breast cancer. Any night you have, you’ll find that I was sitting at the Tipsy Pig, having a drink. Perhaps, you should get a drink.”

  Ignoring him, Haven asked, “Where were you on Valentine’s day?”

  “The Tipsy Pig yet again.” Sheriff Bran turned to me. “Luther is the owner. He makes a great bacon sandwich. Everything they serve has some pig in it. Barbecue pork chops. Herb-crusted pork loin. Pulled pork hoagies. Even a few of the drinks has crispy bacon stuck around the glass’s rim. Each dessert is topped with chocolate bacon.”

  I wrote the name down. “And you are there on most Sunday nights?”

  “I’m there every night. I don’t have a woman to cook for me. Do you have a woman that cooks for you, Agent King?”

  “Not yet.” I looked at him.

  “You’re young enough. Get one. Since I lost Christine, I haven’t had a homecooked meal yet. That’s why I’m at the Tipsy Pig every night and especially on Sunday evenings. It’s the best meal on a Sunday, if you don’t have a wife to make your own.”

  “Good food?” Haven held a stern expression. “Maybe, we should check it out.”

  Annoyance crept into Sheriff Bran’s eyes.

  I smirked. “I do have a taste for some barbecue pork chops.”

  Sheriff Bran rose from his chair. “Then, enjoy yourself, but leave the files. You don’t take those with you. Colesville police have helped. No
w you can leave.”

  “We will.” Haven placed the rest of them in the pile at the edge of the table. “However, we may need to return and look some of the files over again.”

  “Let’s hope they are still here when you return.” Sheriff Bran walked off.

  I began to say something but left it alone. If we returned and the files disappeared, he would experience my wrath, backed by the federal government.

  Why destroy the files? Are you hiding something?

  Haven turned to me. “He wasn’t happy about our questions, especially when it was about his whereabouts. If we return, there won’t be a welcoming party.”

  “Too bad.” I stood. “So, are you hungry?”

  She smirked. “I am. Shall we go to the Tipsy Pig?”

  “We must. It has pig products galore. What else could a man ask for?”

  Haven scrunched up her face. “Pig products galore. Sounds tasty.”

  While I didn’t know if Sheriff Bran had anything to do with the Fullbrooke Six, I did like the idea of annoying him further. Nothing pissed me off more than a cop that didn’t know his place. Six girls had been kidnapped and suffocated. He should have been giving me all resources he could to find the killer. Worst case scenario, a serial killer would begin to slip over to the town next to him. Colesville could deal with the same sort of cases next year.

  But that was the problem with a man like Sheriff Bran. He didn’t care about the dead girls because they were black. And because of that, I would annoy the shit out of him for an hour and make sure his alibi was airtight.

  You better be innocent, Sheriff, because I would love to pin this on you.

  Chapter 13

  The Tipsy Pig

  Haven

  “Leave the gun in the glove compartment.” Alexander parked the car. “We’re just here for lunch, and besides I’m sure the sheriff told them we were on the way.”

  I did as he requested.

  He left the car.

  I did too.

  Alexander got to my side. “But seriously, are you hungry?”

  “I actually am.”

  “Good. Although I’m not counting this as our meal.”

  I looked at him. “Our meal?”

  “You promised that we would sit down and have a meal together.”

  “Hmmm.” Smiling, I turned away and continued to head to the door. “I only promised to recommend a place to you for good food.”

  “No. I recall an agreement to have dinner that I would pay for.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “That was the conversation.”

  “How interesting?”

  “Interesting indeed,” Alexander smirked. “Regardless, this is not the meal.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm. Is right.” He stopped at the front door and opened it for me. “We should eat and hang out here for a while. This place should have a bunch of regulars. They may have something to say.”

  “You want to hang around and wait for the night crowd to roll in?”

  “They’ll come in, have some drinks, and possibly be willing to talk.”

  I quirked my brows. “Even though we definitely look like FBI agents?”

  “There will be many that will be drunk enough to not notice.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  He smiled. “When it comes to alcohol, we only have to wait for the right ones to blab their mouths.”

  “And we’ll be there listening.”

  “We sure will.” Alexander winked.

  We entered.

  With a name like the Tipsy Pig, I didn’t expect much at all. I figured it would be a dusty place with a few signs of pigs here and there. However, when we stepped inside, the space provided the craziest décor I’d ever seen. Porcelain mermaids hung from the ceiling. In the center, a chandelier of silver pigs glimmered. Although it was summertime, a glittery Christmas tree sat in the corner. Crystal reindeers and gold stars dangled from the branches along with Santa pigs.

  But the pig paintings on the wall were something to behold. There were pigs with unicorns. Other pigs washed their fat pink bodies in a tub. Some pigs wore blonde wigs and tight skirts as they stood on a corner like hookers. Others twirled in tutus and ballerina shoes. The painting near the bar showed a pig singing the blues. Another one donned a huge afro and held a fist in the air like a Black Panther.

  “Wow.” I leaned to the side and whispered in Alexander’s ear. “They were really committed to the pig theme.”

  “I see, and they spared no expense.”

  “Nothing, but the best for the Tipsy Pig.”

  In the back, a blues band played on a small stage. They each wore a different color of the rainbow. The lead singer donned blue. The guitarist had on green. One backup singer swayed her hips in a red dress. The other shook her white skirt while the piano man had on a bright yellow suit.

  Alexander guided us to a booth near the bar. We sat down at the spot. The table leaned to the side. Cracks marred the cushion on the edge.

  The waitress arrived, wearing jeans and a low-cut red shirt. Her cleavage weighed the top down in the front. Bright pink coated her lips. She handed us plastic menus. “We have a special today. Maple-habanero glazed pork steaks. It comes with a side of roasted potatoes and cheesy spinach.”

  “That sounds amazing.” Alexander opened the menu. “For now, I’ll still need time. What about you, Haven?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I need time too, but I would love a glass of water.”

  The waitress nodded and then leaned forward, exposing her cleavage to Alexander. She tossed her black hair over her shoulder. “And you, sir?”

  Turning to the menu, he didn’t take the bait. “Water sounds good. Thank you.”

  Shrugging, she rose and left.

  Alexander directed his attention back to me. “What do you think of the place?”

  “Lots of pigs.” I scanned the area. “Lots of drunks.”

  “Very drunk. It may not take too long to get someone to start talking.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  The waitress returned with our waters. We both ordered the specials— Maple-habanero glazed pork steaks. It comes with a side of roasted potatoes and cheesy spinach.

  “So. . .” Alexander took a sip of his water.

  I raised my eyebrows. “So?”

  “We never really explored your conversation with Loverboy last night.”

  “We did.”

  “You said he came to the hotel.”

  “He did.”

  “You said he also asked for you to keep him up-to-date on any of our suspicions toward his father.”

  “Yes, and I told Sean that I wouldn’t do it. Then, Sean mentioned the fact that he figured the FBI would suspect Reverend Thompson due to the Colesville murders.”

  He twirled his hands back and forth as if bored. “I’ve got that part. I want to know the naughty details.”

  I giggled. “The naughty details?”

  “Is that not a proper request as your supervising agent?”

  “It’s not, and also there are no naughty details.”

  “I didn’t think so, but it was worth an opportunity to taunt you.”

  “And you enjoy taunting me with Sean?”

  Alexander gave me an intense stare. “I more want to know if you’re done with Sean.”

  “I am, but what would it matter to you?”

  He shrugged. “Getting rid of Sean is a wise decision.”

  “Because?”

  “He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Any man that doesn’t want to put you high on a throne above them, shouting to the world that you are his, is a man that doesn’t deserve you.”

  I considered those words. “Okay. I like that.”

  “You should. You’re the one on the throne.”

  “Although I don’t need to sit on a throne, and I don’t want to be above the man I choose to love.”

  Alexan
der leaned his head to the side. “You want to be his equal?”

  “That’s only fair.”

  “Love isn’t fair, Agent Barron. And you should get what you deserve. I don’t know many men that could stand next to you, and I’m just meeting you.”

  I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. “You have a sweet tongue.”

  “Do you like sweets?”

  Again, he had me grinning from ear-to-ear.

  Boy, you better stop flirting with me.

  Still, with the silly smile, I picked up my water and took a sip.

  “No response, Agent Barron?” He nodded. “That’s fair.”

  The waitress carried over our food.

  The food ended up being beyond delicious. Before we finished the chops, Alexander ordered us caramel pecan pies.

  We chatted about our lives during the meal and stayed away from the case. It was a much-needed break. He asked me more about my life in Fullbrooke.

  In turn, I decided to learn more about him. He loved the metal bands of the 1990s—Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson, White Zombie, and Ministry. In his free time, he enjoyed westerns and had a cowboy hat collection that he’d never showed anyone. I figured he was too scared to open himself up to people. I wondered what made him so closed off. He told me about his childhood. He was an only child and admitted he was spoiled by both parents.

  Stein called in the middle of our eating. Fullbrooke police had rounded up all registered black pedophiles and sex offenders in town, locked the guys up and was interviewing them. An agent sat in on the questioning, checking to make sure that each man had an alibi for the dates the girls were kidnapped.

  Alexander hung up with an annoyed expression. “The police are wasting their time and resources. Stein and I checked these men out when we first arrived.”

  I finished munching on the last bite of my pork chop. “And the murders aren’t sexual in nature. They’re religious and ritualistic. This is just going to piss everyone off.”

  “Apparently, Pastor Miller and his congregation are outside the police station now with signs.”

  I let out a long breath, pulled out my phone, and checked the screen. “My mom’s been calling all day. It’s probably about that.”

  “Did you talk to her yesterday?”

  “I let her know when I arrived and that I would be at Saint Mary’s Inn. She promised to give me some space since I’m on official business.”