“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 looking 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.
More mayhem ensued near the Millers’ house. Cops fought men. Women slung their pocketbooks at some of the agents’ cars. Kids kicked cop cars. Teens threw rocks at Stein’s car as he drove through.
“Goddamn it!” I had to back out of the road several feet before I could make a U-turn. “This is crazy.”
Haven remained quiet, gazing in shock at the riot.
While Fullbrooke Baptist Church wanted this case solved, they didn’t ask for a suspect that would break their hearts. They wanted the typical killer—white, psychotic, middle-aged man, hateful of any race but his own.
I continued to back up, driving slow but getting us away from the madness.
Haven ran her fingers through her hair. “I would think that with everyone knowing about Brie being saved, that they would connect the dots and understand the reason we are looking for Vernon.”
“It’s hard to predict humans. In the worse times, we can be hateful with no logic.”
Haven kept her voice low. “This is going to destroy Fullbrooke.”
“If it does, then it would be Vernon’s fault. Not yours or anyone else in the FBI.” Finally, I turned us off the road. “We followed the evidence. What else could we do? Ignore Vernon because it would destroy the community?”