Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  Darkness. And it wasn’t just blackness. It was shades of dark. Smoky twists and turns behind my eyelids. Almost visually artistic, if not for the horror of being forced to undergo it. Curls of gloom. Specks of pink or green light here and there, but nothing more. Sometimes I sore I witnessed amber hues.

  And meanwhile, Pastor Miller sang His Eye is on the Sparrow in the most beautiful tone. He’d been known for having an amazing voice. Many in the congregation didn’t know because he barely sang.

  Mama. . .it was Pastor Miller. . .all along.

  Terror clutched my heart. I knew I would die soon. Alexander knew I was meeting with Pastor Miller. That would be my only possibility of being saved. But Pastor Miller knew he would get caught. He’d boldly stepped into the lobby and been with me. Perhaps, he thought this move would save Vernon. Maybe, he was tired of pretending to be something else when he was always a monster inside.

  How could it be. . .Pastor Miller?

  I tried to grasp at logic, but my head spun and spun onto itself. And Pastor Miller sang, luring me into the words in the song. Soon, I found myself consumed and soothed by the calming words.

  I remembered Pastor Miller talking about the Gospel of Matthew. His words had always sat with me in my roughest times.

  “Look at the birds in the air!” He raised his hands in front of the congregation. “Matthew said that they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.”

  My father clapped next to me. “Yes, Lord.”

  “God is always by our side. His eye is on the sparrow.”

  I fell deep into that truth, wrapped myself up in that certainty, and worried no more.

  Darkness slowly swallowed me up.

  I woke up later. I didn’t know how much time had passed. My body said several hours. I was extremely hungry.

  Blinking, I opened my eyes and gazed around a dark, cold room.

  The window was open. Moonlight came in.

  It’s already dark. Oh my God. How long has it been?

  My head pounded.

  Nausea rolled in my stomach.

  I tried to move, but my hands were bound—tied behind my back. I sat in a wooden chair that was hard, with a high back. My ankles were tied to the chair legs too.

  I looked down. I was strapped to the chair, nice and tight. I shifted from side to side and could barely move an inch.

  A dark voice came from the corner of the room. “Haven.”

  I turned my view in that direction.

  Pastor Miller walked over to me. Shadows hid most of him, but I could make him out within the moonlight.

  My voice cracked. “Why?”

  “You know I was going to take you long ago. When you were a little girl, but your father kept his eyes on you. Same as your mother. Very good parents. You were blessed.”

  “Pastor Miller, what are you doing? You have to let me go—”

  “They’re going to lock my boy up for my sins.”

  “I. . .I can talk to them, but you have to let me go.”

  “How are you going to do that, Haven?” He stepped into the moonlight.

  My heart stopped. No longer did he appear like sweet Pastor Miller. Horror decorated his face. “Those white boys want my boy. They’ll take him. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Then, why take me?”

  “Because you caused this trouble.”

  “P-Pastor, I. . .I just went with the evidence.”

  “It wasn’t no evidence—”

  “All the victims went to the church.”

  “Nobody got that until you came down.”

  “They would have.”

  “Those white boys wouldn’t have connected the dots.” He leaned forward. “You know why? Because they don’t care. No one else cares about black girls. You see how they treat them.”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone. They leave them alone and discarded. Keisha won’t be watched like Molly. Nobody going to tend after Felicia when Becky is around with her little blonde curls and pretty blue eyes.”

  “P-Pastor—”

  “That’s why it’s always been easy to take black girls and give them back to God.” Pastor Miller walked off. “Too easy. And then you came.”

  “Wait! Don’t go!”

  He returned with a chair, placed it in front of me, and sat down. “Are you hungry?”

  “Please, let me go. You don’t want to do this.”

  “I’ve never wanted to do this, Haven, but when God calls, you must answer.”

  “God is not telling you to kill girls.”

  “I never kill them. You can’t kill a soul.”

  “Pastor Miller, the bible says you should not kill.”

  “Don’t you try and quote the bible with me. I bet last Sunday was the first time you’ve been inside of church in years. You were too busy chasing after white boys.”

  I tried to move in the chair again. The ropes bit into my flesh.

  “You always wanted to fight against God’s work.”

  “God’s work. There’s nothing in the bible—”

  “The Old Testament is blood, gore, and violence.” Pastor Miller leaned his head to the side. “How can a loving God cause so much killing and violence?”

  “It was different in the New Testament.”

  “People think God is vengeful because of the Flood and the allowance of warfare against Israel’s enemies, including the deaths of enemy women and children.” Pastor Miller leaned forward. “God does not intend evil. He permits it.”

  “Why?” I scanned the room and spotted the door behind him.

  “I would not know. I don’t know much about evil.”

  “Killing girls is doing evil.”

  “I never killed them. I sent them back to God.”

  “That’s not your choice.”

  “God sent me. He trained me as a kid, cutting all those little girls down from the trees as they hung.”

  “What little girls?”

  “The ones that those Thompsons and his KKK buddies would hang once a month.” He let out a long breath and covered his face with his hands. After a few seconds, he rubbed his face and dropped his hands to his lap. “I did what God needed. I helped my Pa cut those girls down—even my sister Lily. Every time they hung those girls up, I had to cut them down. Their eyes always watched me as I did it. Some started talking to me right from the dead.”

  “The little girls?”

  “Yes. They spoke to me. God spoke through them.”

  “They were dead.”

  “No. By then they had become angels.”

  My bottom lip quivered. “Pastor Miller, what are you going to do to me?”

  “Send you to God, Haven. When’s the last time you talked to him?”

  “But my mother—”

  “She’ll be just fine. I’ll help her grieve through this rough time.”

  “The FBI know I’m with you.”

  “It doesn’t matter if they do, they’ll never find your body. They’ll need that.”

  “They’ll have you taking me out of the inn.”

  “God protects those who serve him.”

  “You don’t serve God.”

  He frowned and stood. “The Devil got a hold of you, girl.”

  “No, you do!” I looked around the room. “Help! Help! Help!”

  He stared at me. “We’re long gone from town, little one. Only God and me can hear you now?”

  “Where are we?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I shivered. “I’m. . .I’m hungry. C-can I have something to eat?”

  “What do you want?”

  “A. . .chicken platter from Fanny’s—”

  “That’s too far.”

  “So, we’re not in Fullbrooke?”

  “We’re in Colesville.”

  “Why?”

  “Because just in case it’s time for me to leave this earth, I would like to be where it all started. The place where God first spoke to me
.”

  My heart hammered in my chest. “W-where’s that?”

  “I’ll get you something to eat. For now, Haven, make sure you pray to Him.” He shook his head. “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. Submit yourself therefore to God.”

  With that, he left the room, shut the door, and locked it.

  I sat there in darkness, wondering how I would get out of this.

  All this time, it had been Pastor Miller. And from the sound of this, he had been taking girls long before the Fullbrooke Six. He’d gone crazy from what Thompson and the KKK had done by killing all the other girls in the Strange Fruit Murders.

  Pastor Miller had to cut his own sister Lily Miller down from a tree and had never been the same again.

  That’s why he put those black Calla lilies into all of the victims’ hands.

  Sadness took me over.

  How am I going to get out of here?

  Chapter 34

  Confessions

  Alexander

  Haven. Dear God. Where are you?

  I stared at the crowded parking lot. Police combed the whole place. Agents helped. Two helicopters from Colesville and Fullbrooke scoured the area. News vans had parked in front of the inn. Reporters were already on camera, talking about Haven’s kidnapping.

  Stein stood next to me. “We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”

  I shook my head. “Pastor Miller. How did we not catch that?”

  “Because from the beginning, a lot of the times the victims were taken, he stood in front of his congregation, preaching. That’s a lock tight alibi.”

  “He had his grandson take the girls.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “We must talk to Vernon and find out where their killing area is.”

  “Do you think he’ll say anything?”

  “He will or I’ll fucking kill him.”

  Stein got in front of me and widened his eyes. “King. . .I didn’t want to ask. . .but it looked like. . .”

  “What?”

  “It looked like Haven and you became close.”

  I stared past him.

  Stein cleared his throat. “I’m going to give you the advice that I know you would give me. When it comes to trying to find Haven, keep your emotions out of it. This is just another victim.”

  I directed my view his way, giving him all my fury. “She’s not another victim.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Just keep me updated. Any information that comes let me know.” I pushed past him.

  Just another victim? She’s everything and more.

  If I remained, I would have cursed and probably tried to fight him. A lot of aggression rose in me. It wasn’t Stein’s fault. It was mine and Pastor Miller’s. Too bad I couldn’t punch myself without truly meaning it.

  Why did she leave? I shouldn’t have showered without her. I should have kept her next to me the whole time.

  I passed a cop guided by a police dog. It was all bullshit and hopeless. Cameras showed Pastor Miller practically dragging her to the car. She appeared drunk and out of it. He’d given her something.

  I’ll never let Pastor Miller live after this. I’ll kill him and I won’t follow any rules or regulation. He’s dead as soon as I see him.

  I got to my car, opened the door, and climbed in. To my surprise, Stein jumped in on the passenger side.

  “What are you doing?” I glared at him.

  “I’m coming with you, so you don’t do anything that you’ll regret.”

  “Whatever I do, I won’t regret it.” I started the car. “Understand that you won’t be able to stop me.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’ll just be a witness to whatever happens.”

  “Maybe, I’ll help.”

  “You won’t. You’ll stay out of it, so you don’t get in trouble.”

  “King, we’ve worked together for years. I’m closer to you than my blood brother. If you want to go to the ends of the earth to find Haven, I’ll help drive.”

  Suddenly, the back door opened.

  I glanced behind me.

  Richards gave me a weak smile. “I’m coming.”

  I scowled. “You don’t even know where we are going or—”

  “Pastor Miller took one of our own. I liked Haven.” Richards pulled out her gun. “Let’s go.”

  I let out a long breath, turned back to the front view, and sped us off. “Let’s get to the station and talk to Vernon.”

  Worry hit Stein’s voice. “You’re going to talk to him?”

  “Who else would?”

  “I could or Tina.”

  I gripped the steering wheel. “I’m doing it.”

  We drove away from Saint Mary’s Inn. Dread filled me. I looked in the rearview mirror, trying to calm my hysteria.

  Pastor Miller, please don’t hurt her. Please. . .God. . .I don’t talk to you much, but. . .please protect her. Please.

  Vernon would be our best bet to find her.

  I’ll save you, Haven.

  Twenty minutes later, I stood in the interrogation room. Stein and Richards were on the other side of the one-way mirror.

  Okay. This will work. I’ll pull out all the tricks. I’ll do everything to get him to talk.

  An interrogation’s psychological manipulation began before the interrogator even opened his mouth. The physical layout of the room was designed to maximize the suspect's discomfort and sense of powerlessness from the moment he stepped inside.

  Fullbrooke’s interrogation room was small like a prison cell. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Dark gray paint coated the walls and ceiling, making the space feel tight and uneasy. No pictures or décor on the walls. Nothing to make anyone feel comfortable. There needed to be this sense of exposure, unfamiliarity and isolation. We wanted the victim to be constantly thinking in their mind—get me out of here. Even the one-way mirror served as an ideal addition to the room. It tended to increase the suspect's anxiety.

  There, Vernon sat on a plastic chair that could have been stolen from a kindergarten class. The temperature had been turned up. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.

  Wiping it away, Vernon turned to the mirror and blinked.

  Yes. Others are watching you. How does that feel? Usually you can hide. Slip in and out and do what you want. Not anymore.

  When I first walked inside, I just stared at him.

  I still hadn’t talked. Two minutes of silence had already passed. He shook, watching me the whole time.

  Due to the seriousness of the crime and his grandfather’s actions, he would be tried and treated as an adult. There would be no need to have his grandmother sit next to him.

  You’re all mine, Vernon.

  On the fourth minute, I walked over to my chair and sat down.

  Vernon stirred across from me.

  There, I studied him some more, heightening his feelings of uneasy. While I had to hurry due to Haven being gone—too much of a rush could allow Vernon to slip out of my hands. If he was too comfortable—too confident—he would never give us the information to find her.

  How did one get a criminal to confess? Modern interrogation was a study in human nature. It was also an art. I’d been known to level with many killers. I could lure their confessions out. Get them to hand over everything. It was something that made me proud and my father a bit uneasy.

  And getting someone to confess to a crime was not a simple task. The fact that police sometimes ended up with confessions from innocent people proved how much interrogations dealt with psychological manipulation. Many cracked due to the contrasting extremes, even the most hardened criminal. Dominance and submission. Control and dependence. This was no simple task.

  He’ll tell me what I need to know. Haven will be back to me.

  Typical idiot cops thought they could get a perp to confess from aggression. Glaring. Getting in the guy's face. Lies and Deception. Threats. None of that would work.

  Interrogation required confidence and creativity. The bad ones used disg
usting methods. Deprivation of food and water. Bright lights. Physical discomfort. Long isolation. Beatings with rubber hoses and other instruments that didn't leave marks.

  Under the law, we could lie to a suspect to get him or her to confess. The belief was that an innocent person would never confess to a crime they didn't commit, even if confronted with false physical evidence of involvement.

  That was bullshit.

  An innocent person would confess regardless, simply because they were terrified.

  None of that mattered in this situation. Brie said it was Vernon who took her. We had the victims’ DNA on his paintings along with strands of their hair behind the canvas. That was more evidence than fingerprints at the scene.

  But will he give his grandfather up and help us find Haven?

  If he was willing to help kill little girls that he personally knew from church, would he want to save someone? The odds were low with a psycho like him.

  Vernon widened his eyes. “Are. . .are you going to ask me anything?”

  There were nine steps to a masterful interrogation. The first was developing an easy rapport. Casual conversation created a non-threatening presence in a hostile atmosphere. People trusted others that were like them. Plus, I’d been so quiet for too long. The moment I spoke would finally put Vernon at ease.

  I placed my hand on the table. “How are you today, Vernon?”

  He blinked in shock. “Uh. . .”

  “Are you thirsty?”

  “Y-yes. . . well, I don’t have to get anything, but. . .”

  “What do you want?”

  He swallowed. “Soda.”

  I gave him a welcoming smile. “What’s your favorite?”

  He wiped more sweat off his forehead. “Coke.”

  I clapped loud.

  He jumped.

  “A coke-man. I love coke too.” I clapped again and signaled for Stein to get two sodas. “I’ll have one with you. Is that okay?”

  “S-sure. You can do what you like?”

  “Hmmm.” I quirked my brows. “I can do what I like.”

  Vernon shut his mouth, unsure of what I was really saying.

  Here we go.

  The next step was to turn the friendliness to the task at hand.

  “You are an amazing painter.”

  Vernon swallowed.

  “I hate what the forensics lab did to them.” I shook my head. “Scraping off the paint and putting it under the microscope.”