Although I had a sparkling and spotless record of my own, I had to write several letters to the mayor of Fullbrooke and the Georgia governor to be a part of the Angel Maker’s task unit. I had argued that I was familiar with the town and people since I grew up here. I explained that my hometown knowledge could help the investigation go faster. A bit cocky, I added that it wouldn’t hurt to have a black woman on an all-white and male unit dealing with black girls. That latter argument was surely the reason why they’d put me on.
The other reason was probably because Pastor Miller had been giving Georgia State hell for these past six months. With the cameras on his side, the fire for justice would continue to catch fuel, and everything would explode. The governor and mayor wanted the Angel Maker found and the police looking like everyone’s savior. And so, they took a chance and assigned me. I would just be with the King’s men on this case. It wasn’t an official appointment, but I was sure I could show Alexander King how dedicated and hard I would work.
He’ll see. They will all see. And we’re going to get this asshole that’s hurting these girls.
I scanned the small police station.
Whether I was assigned or not, I would’ve been here. Might as well be getting paid to do it.
This wasn’t the first time I had been in this station. For thirty years, my father was a cop with the Fullbrooke police and then retired. He passed away ten years after that. He was one of the few blacks on the force and talked about how cliquish the different squads were. Because of that, he didn’t want me to stay in Fullbrooke or join the police. He found the town too racist and close-minded on both sides. When I told him I wanted to go into law enforcement like him, he pointed me to the FBI.
At my academy graduation, I swore he was the proudest father there. Mom had to keep telling him to shush as he hooted and hollered.
Years later, I was stationed in Quantico, working on missing cases and slowly making a difference in the Bureau. When my father passed, he did so with a smile, knowing that his little girl and my mother would be okay.
I can’t believe I’m back in Fullbrooke, and Daddy isn’t here.
Sweat made my palms damp. I rubbed them a little and followed the clerk forward.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you look so familiar.”
“My father used to be a cop here. Detective—”
“Barron?” She beamed. “You’re Charlie’s little girl?”
“Yes. I am. You knew my father well?”
“Oh, not really. It just wasn’t many of your kind that made it to detective. He was one of the good ones.”
My kind? As if I’m an alien of some sort. Welcome back to Fullbrooke. A town on the far edge of the modern age.
I spotted a door on the right that was labeled crime lab. I bet it was a tiny room, barely doing much.
What does Agent King think of my small town? He must be banging his head against the wall at how dated it is.
She guided me down the hallway and stopped at the door. “Here you go. They are expecting you. You’re to go to Special Agent Brett Stein.”
“Stein? Not Special Agent King?”
“No. They told me Agent Stein. I would’ve remembered if it was King. He’s a hard one to forget.” She shook her head and then smiled. “Although grumpy and brooding, King’s face brings a little sunshine to the station.”
I ignored her swooning and readied myself for business. “Okay. I will be with Special Agent Stein.”
She walked off.
The weight of my gun and holster pressed against my side. I stared at the door, breathed in, breathed out, and then opened it.
Chatter ensued. Phones rang. The large wall in the back held big pictures of the six girls. I had read as much as I could about the case. I planned to go to the families and see if I could get more details.
I was sure no one had talked to the agents as much as they should. In Fullbrooke, there was distrust between law enforcement and the black community. Families were hesitant to call the cops. Police brutality and corruption rang true here. A cop could be called to the house because someone was burglarized. In the end, the white cop might take the black homeowner to jail for outstanding warrants or even not showing proper respect.
My dad did his best to try and clean up the dirtiness staining this force, but it never got clean.
I walked past several agents. Many sat at their desks on the phones. Pastor Miller’s congregation had raised an award for $50,000 for anyone who could help catch the Angel Maker. I was sure many people had been calling. The no snitching policy in the black community left, when money was involved.
I checked out a few faces. There was only one other woman in the room—a red-head with short hair. She stood by the wall of the Fullbrooke Six. The rest were men—all about thirty—crowding the huge room.
I’m here. No doubt they noticed my black behind walk in. With this crowd, I’m not blending in.
I glanced at the left wall.
A massive map covered it. Large markers were pinned in areas of the map. Each marker had the victim’s name. I paused for a few seconds and assessed it. There was no shape that the markers made—no indication as to why the Angel Maker had chosen to place the girls’ dead bodies in those spots.
How are these places important to him? I’ll have to do some history on the locations.
Walking further, I stopped at the big wall with the Fullbrooke Six and studied as much as I could.
I spotted the first victim—Felicia Drake. The 12-year-old was taken after church. In high school, I had been on the cheerleading team with her mother—Shondra. We hadn’t made much of a connection. I was only on the squad for a week, before they all realized I had no rhythm and kicked me off. Regardless, the small connection could help me talk to Shondra. Maybe she had more to add on her daughter’s kidnapping.
Under Felicia’s class photo were pictures of her red purse and its contents. At the bottom, the last image of Felicia was shown. Dressed in a ruffled red dress, she sat with her eyes closed and a gold halo on top of her head. Wings spread out behind her. She held a black lily in her hand.
Why is the lily important to him?
The second victim was Karen Brookes—ten years old. Her photo was next to her name. Just as brown as all the other girls. Just as brown as me. The Angel Maker had a sick fascination for our color. He never took a girl lighter or even darker. It was that same hue of chocolate brown as if he waited and searched for the right tone.
On Valentine’s day, Karen’s mother had dropped her off for ballet class. Staying in the car, she’d watched her daughter walk inside. Then her mother drove off. There had been no one else to witness what happened in the lobby between the front door and ballet classes. No cameras either. Karen could’ve gone to the water fountain or bathroom and been grabbed. Either way, the Angel Maker knew no one would be looking or watching out for the ballerina.
Pictures of her pink ballet shoes lay under her photo. They were left at the entrance in the lobby. Karen’s last image sat at the bottom. She wore a pink dress with the signature gold halo and wings. The same type of black lily was in her hand.
Besides being dark brown and from Fullbrooke, what else do these girls have in common?
Before arriving, I had made so many notes on the plane. There seemed to be no real method to the Angel Maker’s process of picking the girls. Felicia was twelve years old. Karen was ten. One would think that he would pick an eight-year-old next if he was doing something weird with numbers and ages. Instead, he kidnapped Ariana Waterson who was six years old.