Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  When Alexander hung up, I pulled my camera out. “We’ve got him?”

  “I think so.” Alexander flashed the light over the room while I snapped pictures.

  A small mattress lay in the corner of the room. A cooler sat next to it. I opened it. Food supplies, juice boxes, and ice filled it.

  I shut it. “Vernon thought of everything.”

  Alexander walked over to the other side of the room and flashed light on an orange pillow. “He sure did.”

  I took a picture of everything. This would be the initial part of evidence. Forensics would do a more thorough job.

  Alexander shook his head as he continued to take it all in. “Something is still bothering me.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like we’re still missing something. Teens are smart in this age of time. But this smart?”

  “They’re definitely smarter than we were at their age. They walk around with minicomputers in their pockets and the ability to find any form of information they want. I think this is a possibility.”

  Alexander’s jaw clenched. “Is this what our newly budding psychos will be doing with technology?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Me either.”

  We went over the old church some more. As we prepared to leave, tons of police arrived. News cameras came next.

  We headed straight to the police station. The car ride was somber. We both barely talked. So much had just occurred. I surely needed to process it.

  We saved her. No victim number seven.

  When we made it to the station and walked inside, I spotted Vicky Johnson running into the station.

  “I want to see my daughter!” Her fierce demand shook me to my core. “Where is Brie?”

  An officer ran up to her. “Ma’am, please calm—”

  She ran over to me. “Haven, do you know?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Come with us.”

  Little Brie sat in the back with Officer Vidal and Officer Grey sipping a juice box.

  The little girl’s right hand was bandaged. She must’ve had a little scrap sometime during the kidnapping.

  “I want my daughter!” Vicky moved me out of the way and hurried over to her. Once she got there, Brie was in her hold.

  We all stood back.

  Vicky wrapped Brie in her arms, and I swore she would never let her daughter go.

  The moment was heavy to take in.

  My eyes watered, but I wouldn’t let myself cry.

  Meanwhile, Vickie cried tears of joy. Loud, shuddering sobs. It rocked me to my core. And we all stood there in silence. Many faces of agents and cops watched with somber expressions. It was as if this was our payday. This was the reason why we got out of our beds and chased after monsters.

  This moment when someone won. When a child was saved, and a mother’s tears shifted from heartbreak to joy. And the world appeared better than what we thought. And there was this sign that God truly existed.

  “Brie, I love you baby.” Vicky rocked her daughter in her arms. “I love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Mommy.”

  No one moved. To move would be to end it. And this had been a long depressing case. We had to get any joy we could.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Vicky whispered. “Thank you.”

  A tear left my eye. I was so embarrassed, although I shouldn’t have been. My mother always said that tears kept the soul alive.

  I should have asked her how.

  I wiped it away.

  Alexander and I walked over to her.

  Vicky looked up at our approach.

  Alexander flashed his badge. “Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Alexander King with the FBI, and I need to—”

  The sobs stopped.

  “You saved my girl!” She jumped up hugged him hard and then let go. “Oh my God! Haven, I knew you would find her.”

  Alexander blinked with complete discomfort.

  Vicky threw her arms around me and squeezed hard enough to take my breath away. “Thank you so much. If you ever need any legal advice or anything, call me, Haven.”

  I regained my breath when she let me go. “I will.”

  “We are happy we were able to save your daughter.” King’s smooth voice grabbed all of our attention. “And we will be even happier once we manage to apprehend the person who kidnapped Brie.”

  “Yes.” Vicky wiped her face. “What can I do? What do you need?”

  “We need to interview Brie.” I kept my voice calm. “With you present, of course. We have to find out who took her and how.”

  “Yes.” Vicky nodded and returned to holding Brie. “Just give us a minute.”

  “That’s fine.” I smiled.

  Meanwhile, Brett walked up to us. Dread filled his eyes. “We have a problem.”

  Alexander frowned. “What?”

  “We can’t find Vernon. After his math course, he disappeared.”

  Rage covered Alexander’s face. “Goddamn it.”

  Chapter 30

  Chaos

  Alexander

  We spent the rest of the day interviewing Brie. In the end, she confirmed what we suspected. Vernon helped her Sunday School Teacher Mrs. Washington. During class, he played with her the most, helping her sing songs about Jesus and even getting her extra crayons to color the scripture lesson activity page for the day.

  According to Brie, Vernon had been her best friend. So, when he showed up in the yard this past Sunday, she didn’t think twice about rushing to him. Vernon promised to take her to get ice cream and that they would surprise her mother with a sweet treat too. He swore it would be quick and that the ice cream man was just around the corner.

  Trusting in her friend, Brie walked with him to his car. They drove away, talking about her favorite tv shows. Ten minutes later, Brie realized they were leaving town. She cried. He assured her everything would be okay.

  Vernon brought her to the old church after that. Scared, she followed him in. He stayed with her for a little, explaining that she had to stay there, or a bad man would get her.

  After Brie’s interview, Georgia Superior Court Judge Rochelle West granted the warrant to search Vernon’s bedroom and monitor his cellphone. Any evidence to the Fullbrooke Six had to be in that bedroom due to the Judge not allowing other parts of the house to be searched.

  A warrant was only judicial permission to search a particular place. In order to get one, we needed probable cause and a reasonable belief that evidence of a crime would be located there.

  Everyone was being careful. For these past months, the theory was that a white man kidnapped and killed the girls. Now with Vernon as our suspect, a shitstorm would rise. He was Pastor Miller’s grandson. As a teenager, he spent his free time helping at Sunday school and working in Fanny’s restaurant. He had perfect grades and not one smudge of bad discipline on his record. He was a perfect kid, model student, and excellent citizen.

  And now the FBI would be hauling him away.

  But first, we have to find him.

  “Let’s go.” I rushed out of the office, holding the warrant in my hand.

  My agents and I wore bulletproof vests with FBI written in yellow on the front. The police hurried with us. Most of the force would assist.

  Haven and I jumped in the car.

  I wasted no time, started it, and sped off.

  A line of agents and cops followed behind us. It must’ve been over thirty cars heading to the Millers’ house. Adrenaline rushed through me.

  I glanced at Haven. She sat face forward with a stern expression. This would be her first raid and a difficult one. She knew the Millers well. She’d played with their kids and ate Sunday dinner at their table many days. They would take this as an insult and be heartbroken from her involvement.

  Although Brie named Vernon in taking her, he could get a smart lawyer and come up with a good defense. Vernon told Brie that he was protecting her from a bad man. Since she hadn’t been harmed, a good defense lawyer would argue tha
t he felt the need to protect her.

  We must find the connection of Vernon and the Fullbrooke Six. He has to have souvenirs in that room somewhere.

  All of us assumed it would be around the paintings somehow. Those would be the first to be taken back to the lab for complete forensics evaluation.

  Souvenirs were the most important part of a serial killer’s amusement. Once he killed, the only way he could enjoy the victim’s death again was through the objects left behind.

  All arrested serial murderers had them. Australian killer Ivan Milat took out seven people and buried them in a forest. When he was finally caught, authorities found a trove of stolen camping supplies—sleeping bags, clothes, equipment, and tents. Ted Bundy was the creepiest of the bunch. Bundy liked to take off his victim’s heads and put them on display in his apartment. Sometimes, he would sleep next to their headless corpses. Charles Albright kept his victim’s eyeballs. Jeffrey Dahmer preserved the heads and genitals. By the time authorities caught him, he had a freezer full of body parts. And the craziness went on. Many kept the victims’ jewelry, shoes, driver’s license.

  All souvenirs resulted in evidence to take them down.

  Later, some killers became wise to that fact and tried to keep their souvenirs less incriminating. Russian criminal Alexander Pichushkin took out 49 people. His goal was to kill 64 in total, the same number of squares on a chessboard. After he was finally arrested, police found a chessboard in his home with murder dates scrawled into the squares.

  Now we had Vernon. So far, all we knew was that he painted the day of his kill—the religious holiday that he chose to take the girl on. But would that be enough to convict him? And was there more evidence lurking within this creepy teen’s bedroom?

  We’ll find out.

  When we pulled up to the Miller’s home, all the police cars surrounded it. Pastor Miller stood in the yard talking to Mrs. Mable and his wife. Perhaps they had heard the news about the cops searching for Vernon.

  Did he contact you yet?

  Haven muttered, “Fuck.”

  “Do you want to stay back?”

  “No. I can’t. I have to be in that bedroom and help with the search.” She held a grim expression as she took her gun out. “I just feel bad for the Pastor and his wife.”

  “Think of Brie and all the Fullbrooke Six.” I grabbed my gun too.

  “You’re right.”

  “I know. This is hard, but we saved Brie’s life and others. Don’t forget that.”

  We jumped out of the car. Other cops and agents followed with their guns out, just in case Vernon was near. Most agents swarmed around the house, rushing to the back and sides.

  Raising his hands in the air, Pastor Miller frowned at our approach. Mrs. Mable and Mrs. Miller raised their hands too.

  Here we go.

  I exhaled and continued their way.

  My heart ached. I had just broke bread with them on Sunday. They had finally welcomed me into their community—their home—and now I came with the police and guns drawn.

  Dear God, I can’t be wrong on this, or I’ll never forgive myself.

  Neighbors came out of their homes, probably to witness what was going on. News of our raiding the Millers’ house would hit every ear by this evening. Only God knew what people would do with the information. Some may be divided. Others might lose their sense of reality from the truth. A teenage serial killer in their church, volunteering around their children? Regardless, panic would rise, and things in Fullbrooke Baptist Church would never be the same.

  “Hello, Pastor Miller.” I held the paper in my left and the gun in my right. “We have a search warrant to check Vernon’s bedroom.”

  Pastor Miller lowered his hands and took the warrant. “There’s no way in God’s sweet Earth Vernon had anything to do with this.”

  “No, Jesus,” Mrs. Miller cried. “My grandson wouldn’t do it. Haven, tell them! Vernon wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  Haven’s bottom lip quivered, but she remained quiet.

  “We’ll have to check the bedroom.” I extended my hand to grab the warrant.

  Pastor Miller threw it on the ground. “You will burn in hell for this, Agent King.”

  “I’m sorry.” I bent over and picked the warrant up.

  Mrs. Miller cried, “Lord have mercy.”

  Haven and I walked off, rushing to the house. There was no time to console the family. We had to act fast and with complete professionalism.

  Police continued to comb the property. Vernon was still a teenager. We had discovered his hiding spot at his great-grandfather’s old church. Coming back home might have been an option. He could have considered that it would be the last place that we would look.

  But Vernon had played with us for too long. Nothing would be ignored.

  “Haven!” Pastor Miller yelled back at us, “Your father is rolling in his grave right now, Haven! You’ve betrayed your community!”

  “Ignore him,” I muttered to Haven. “He’s hurt and scared for his grandson.”

  Keeping my pace, Haven nodded, but those eyes told me that she hated this situation. She hadn’t come back home to cause anyone pain. She shook her head. “You were right.”

  “Right about what?” I rushed up the stairs.

  “I am too close to this case.”

  “But that closeness is what got us here. No regrets.” I stepped onto the porch and for a second, I looked back over to the front yard.

  Pastor Miller held his crying wife as she yelled no over and over. Meanwhile, he glared at me with hateful eyes. There would be no more invitations for Sunday dinner at his house again. No matter what came out of this.

  Yet, Mrs. Mable stood by with a sad gaze. She didn’t look convinced that we were wrong or right. It appeared she was seeing what would happen. I wondered if she had her own suspicions about Vernon too. Surely, she saw the boy a lot.

  No time to think about that.

  The door was unlocked. We opened it and walked into the house. Several agents and cops rushed in with us.

  “Remember!” I headed to the stairs. “Only the bedroom can be searched, but we have to make sure Vernon is not hiding on the property. . .and if that happens to unearth direct evidence to the case, then yell for me.”

  Haven jumped in front and led the two cops. “Vernon’s room is over here.”

  Once we hit his room, we went to work. All had gloves on. I’d instructed my agents to grab the paintings first. Before the agents snatched it off and took it away, one cop snapped pictures of each painting on the wall.

  The noise of rummaging filled the air.

  “Here’s his laptop,” someone yelled.

  “Good. Kids keep everything on it these days. Take it.” I headed over to the first painting and studied it. They were just as Haven had described them—haunting and steeped with religious imagery. Vernon had real talent. Too bad, he didn’t focus on that aspect of his life more.

  Stein took one of the paintings off the wall and lay it on the bed. I examined it. This one showed Jesus on a donkey walking into town as people held palms to the ground.

  I nodded. “Palm Sunday. The day Ariana Waterson was taken.”

  “The kid can paint.” Stein turned it over. “What’s this? Is this typical for canvases?”

  The back of the canvas had a thick panel of cardboard covering the entire area, providing a little space to hide something in between the panel and the canvas.

  “Should we open this now and see if there’s something?” he asked.

  “No. We have to do this right. Get it to Forensics. Have them go through the whole canvas, even test the paint for DNA.”

  Stein gave an odd look. “You think Vernon might have painted this with their blood or saliva?”

  “I think we shouldn’t assume anything until Forensics gets to it.” I scanned the room.

  Haven had a flashlight out as she opened his closet.

  I headed over to his bookshelf, slowly pulling away each book and l
ooking inside. I hoped there were notes or something incriminating, but nothing came. Typical high school textbooks stacked here and there. Every now and then, I spotted a bible or religious book.

  You found comfort in God, but not in the right way.

  It took us three hours to comb his room. I wasn’t sure if we had found anything. Besides the schoolbooks and laptop, it could’ve been the room of an old monk. There were no porno magazines or drugs. Not a poster of a favorite music group or a comic insight. Most of the items we boxed and took with us.

  Vernon never showed up.

  By the time we made it out of the house and back to our cars, the majority of the Fullbrooke Baptist congregation stood outside. And none were happy with us. They yelled. They screamed. Some threw cans of soda, ketchup, mustard, and eggs at us.

  “Goddamn it.” I covered Haven and led her away.

  Besides being covered in food products, our agents were fine.

  Meanwhile, the Fullbrooke police couldn’t help but antagonize the crowd. Clearly, they weren’t happy to be bombarded with food. They pushed back, arresting some and yelling at others.

  By the time Haven and I jumped in the car, a full out riot had begun.

  “No,” Haven cried out. “Damn it. I have to go back out there and stop this.”

  I grabbed her hand. “You can’t. We have to let the church members and police battle this out on their own. We’re here to solve this case. Not bring peace to an already divided town.”

  “But they’re just angry.” Haven shook her head. “Maybe I can talk to them.”

  I pointed at her shirt. “You think that egg on your collar was an accident?”

  She frowned.

  I started the car. “We leave and continue our investigation.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “Jesus. I knew this would happen. We better be right.”

  “We are.” I did my best to maneuver around the rising chaos. Church members yelled and spit at police. Many already had cuffs on their wrists. Others were being chased by the cops. I couldn’t find Pastor Miller or his wife anywhere.

  Somehow, I pulled out onto the road but knew I couldn’t drive forward.