“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. Haven 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.
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.”