“Perhaps, give us a local feel of the town or help us with the interviews. Half of the locals won’t open the door or answer it when we show up.”
“Director Parker says he has a solution for that. A new agent. He’s also adding a new profiler.”
“Two newbies. This will be a disaster.” Stein grinned. “You hate new people. It always throws you off for a week.”
“Which is why you’ll deal with them. I don’t want to see those new agents at all.”
“They could be helpful.”
“It doesn’t matter. Keep the new people away from me.” Groaning, I stepped through the crowd near the entrance. The police had already been pushing them back.
I paused and scanned the gathering, wondering if the Angel Maker was here, watching and enjoying the show.
Behind Pastor Miller, six different women held up their own signs of each girl. They all appeared weary. I recognized most of them as the victims’ mothers.
The mothers had been the hardest for me to interview. Those shattered stares. The lack of hope. The dark, hollow echo of pain in their tones.
I’m so sorry.
“They’re taking our girls!” Pastor Miller yelled. “Right out of our homes. Right as they walk to school, go to ballet class, or sit in church. They’re taking our girls in the movies. They’re taking our girls in the restaurants. Seems like there is nowhere safe for little black girls.”
Such a tragic case. Some of the victims’ parents had been near, but most of the girls were alone for some reason or the other. Parents working double shifts. Latchkey kids that went home on their own.
Another problem was that the FBI didn’t arrive until the sixth month. We should’ve been called sooner. Had it been a little girl of a lighter complexion, we would’ve been brought in by the second month.
Unlike other missing person cases, where FBI agents often appeared the next day, local authorities barely called us for missing ethnic kids. Many were labeled runaways without much investigation or proof of the theory.
Local police had primary jurisdiction. We couldn’t come in unless they made a request. In this situation, the town of Fullbrooke waited too damn long.
I didn’t make this world, Pastor. I’m just trying to clean it up.
This sicko had begun kidnapping girls at the beginning of the year. The first victim was taken the first week of January. Each month after that, another girl was taken. We were now in the seventh month.
When we entered the town, the girls were missing.
In the seventh month, a new twist came. Every other day, the maniac called the station and gave us an address. Each time, we discovered one of the girls’ dead bodies—clean, dressed to impress, and absolutely no bruises. The coroner always reported no sexual or physical abuse. The girls’ stomachs held contents suggesting that he kept them well-fed and even provided treats like ice cream, cake, and pie.
Oddly, the girls would always have an ounce of wine in their stomachs too. Not enough to get intoxicated, but this was part of his ritual.
The cause of death was smothering with the pillow. One that he always left at the scene.
When we arrived, they wore pretty dresses with polished shoes. Their hair was always curled and brushed. Each had bows matching their dresses. The girls’ fingerprints were all over their clothes as if they were the ones to dress themselves. The coroner believed the killer didn’t touch them at all. However, sometime after the girls put on their clothes, he smothered them. Once they passed, he placed a set of gold wings on their backs and pinned halos on top of their heads.
There were no other clues. No fingerprints or DNA. Nothing to get us closer to finding the sicko that was preying on children.
So far, the Angel Maker had been careful and had the Fullbrooke cops and Bureau chasing nothing for the past month.
Today will be girl number six. Melody. Will he start kidnapping more girls? Or is he done? It doesn’t matter. I won’t be done searching for him.
“Black girls matter!” The large crowd chanted, “Black girls matter!”
Horns sounded from across the street.
What the hell was that?
Stein and I stopped and turned around.
“Oh, here we go. Reverend Thompson and his racist fanatics.” I rubbed my face. “Why can’t we just arrest him?”
Stein shrugged. “Because there’s no evidence pointing to anything more than him being a racist piece of shit.”
“Why can’t we make that against the law?”
“Because we’re not Congress.”
I scowled at Reverend Thompson and his group climbing out of several white vans. He’d been a pastor just like Miller, but his congregation had kicked him out for stealing from the church and sleeping with five deacons’ wives. Therefore, Reverend Thompson left with a few of his followers and some of those wives. They started their own church, although they had no building.
Still, it didn’t stop Reverend Thompson from appearing whenever Pastor Miller did and making his voice known to gain national news coverage.
I shook my head.
Reverend Thompson pulled out his megaphone. “They want you to think these missing girls are more than what they are. But it’s lies!”
A chubby red head got to his side and fanned her face. “Speak the good lord’s truth, Reverend.”
“I won’t let these people tear up our town. Especially not a ham hock preacher who wouldn’t know the good lord, if he took a dump in his mouth.”
The crowd laughed.
Reverend Thompson yelled, “These missing girls are nothing but a product of bad family’s embroiled with drugs, unemployment, prostitution—”
“How dare you!” one of the Fullbrooke Six’s mothers screamed.
I signaled the cops. “Get Reverend Thompson out of here. Arrest him if you have to.”
“Arrest him?” The deputy’s face reddened. “For what, sir?”
“For being an insensitive demon. Make something up. Get them out of here!” I yelled at another cop close to me. “Who the hell gave them the address?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll handle it.” The cop rushed away.
“Jesus Christ!” I ran my fingers through my hair. “We don’t even know what we’re walking into and there’s a goddamn riot about to happen.”
“Fullbrooke is a small town.” Stein kept my pace. “News travels fast.”
I rushed up to the brick building. “The killer just called five minutes ago with the location. How the hell did these people know to come?”
“He must’ve called them too.” Stein increased his pace to stay with me. “He likes an audience.”
“Most serial killers do. I’m just wondering why he would contact Pastor Miller and his group. They’ve been the most active in trying to find him.”
“Maybe, he’s taunting Pastor Miller.”
The first girl to disappear was 12-year-old Felicia Drake, who never made it home from church. Her friends had waved goodbye. Her house was a short walk from the church—less than five minutes. None of the neighbors saw her go inside the house. A block away, some kids found her red purse and house key.
Felicia’s parents weren’t in the picture—father in jail and mother on drugs. Her grandmother was too sick to go to church that Sunday. Her aunt had been with her grandmother at the time.