Clueless.
As if he felt Madison’s stare on his neck, Brett turned and looked directly at her. His eyes went to her cap, and he gave a half smile, telling her she had failed in her desire to be overlooked. She yanked away her focus, agitated that he’d caught her.
He’d take their eye contact as a reason to keep up his pursuit.
Movement caught her attention. Emily entered and took a position against the back wall, a mulish expression on her face, clearly not wanting to be at the meeting. A dark-haired woman had followed and now stood beside her, leaning to whisper something in Emily’s ear.
Special Agent Ava McLane.
Madison wondered if the agent had encouraged Emily to come.
“Folks? Can we quiet it down?” Harlan Trapp’s voice echoed over the loudspeaker. Vina had stepped down, and she took the seat beside Alice and exchanged a few words, making Madison’s heart warm. The low buzz of conversations stopped, and the room grew silent.
“That’s better.” Sorrow flooded Harlan’s round face. “I know everyone’s heard about the horrible murders of Lindsay and Sean Fitch, and I’m sure you have lots of questions.”
“I thought it was a murder-suicide,” one female voice called out from the crowd.
Harlan rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, now . . . I think they said that at first, but last I heard it was a double murder, right?” He looked out over the room. “Where’s the sheriff?”
Quiet murmurs spread as people looked right and left, seeking the sheriff.
“He’s working,” announced a man in a plaid shirt leaning against the wall opposite Madison. She didn’t know his name but recognized him as a county deputy.
“What’s the point of this meeting if he’s not here to give us accurate information?” asked an indignant female voice.
“I thought he was coming,” Harlan said in a mildly panicked tone. “Who was supposed to tell the sheriff about the meeting?” No one answered as he frantically scoured the crowd.
“Well, darn it.” His countenance sagged.
Madison sighed. Organization wasn’t Harlan’s strong suit.
“I don’t think we need the sheriff here to remind us to lock our doors and look out for our neighbors,” Vina said in a strong voice to reach all ears. “It’s up to us to help our community stay safe, and we do that by keeping our eyes open.”
A man spoke up from the back. “And what do we do if we see the murderer?”
“You know what he looks like?” shot back another man, sarcasm heavy in his tone.
“Yeah. He’s a skinhead.”
Opinions erupted in reaction to the description, creating a din that echoed through the sanctuary.
Harlan ran a hand over his bald head. “Okay! Everyone settle down!” His voice quivered slightly. “Josh, that kind of comment isn’t helpful. We don’t judge people by their looks around here.”
“Bullshit.” Leann Windfield spoke clearly, still leaning against her wall. “Looks are exactly what got Sean Fitch killed. If you can’t see that, you’re part of the problem.”
Madison’s mouth fell open. His skin color got him killed?
Dozens of voices rose in anger, and Harlan struggled to take control of the room. A woman in the center stood up, and a hush finally came over the crowd. Madison recognized her as a retired schoolteacher. “We don’t have racism in this town,” she announced. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never seen anything that even hints at it.”
Madison wanted to nod in agreement, but something prickled at her subconscious. Leann’s statement was echoing in her brain, stirring up a faint memory of similar statements.
She couldn’t put it together.
“Just because you’ve never experienced it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” Leann told her. “Take a look around this room. It’s ninety-nine percent white. No wonder you feel it doesn’t exist.” Leann looked to Harlan. “If Sean’s murder isn’t racially motivated, why is the FBI here and working with the sheriff on this case?”
The room was silent as all eyes turned to Harlan.
“The FBI?” Sweat glistened at Harlan’s temples, his voice high.
A few moans and mutters sounded. Her uncle snorted, and a small laugh erupted from his throat. Madison briefly closed her eyes. Pull it together, Harlan. Watching the mayor flounder was painful.
Harlan glanced about the room. “Anyone else heard the FBI is here?”
Several people nodded.
Madison glanced at Agent McLane. Is she going to speak up? The agent’s lips pressed together as she took stock of the crowd. McLane had asked her if she’d heard of threats directed at Sean or Lindsay. She hadn’t specified that the threats could have been motivated by race.
“You’re trying to make this murder into a social issue, when it’s not,” announced a white-haired man Madison didn’t recognize. “I’ve also never seen any racism in this town. What we’ve got is a psycho killer on the loose, and I’ll be sleeping with Betsy on my nightstand until they catch him. Betsy will put a hole in anyone who tries to break into my house.”
Several heads nodded in agreement.
Harlan grimaced.
“Did you know that Oregon was the only state that began as whites only?” Agent McLane’s voice was low but clear and carried through the room. “The original state constitution excluded all nonwhites from living here.” Heads swiveled in her direction, and questioning looks were exchanged as people tried to place her.
“That was over a hundred and fifty years ago,” someone answered.
“It was,” agreed Ava. “And just a few years ago, recruiting flyers were spread in southern Oregon asking people to join an organization that descended directly from the KKK. Its name is different now; its purpose is not.”
“Flyers are free speech,” argued a man a few feet from Ava. “That’s protected.”
“You’re correct, they are,” agreed Ava. “I’m not challenging the right to hand out flyers. The 1920s were a very active decade for the KKK in Oregon, but most residents would agree that it has fizzled out. No one has seen a white hood around here for decades, right?”
Nods answered her.
“The point I’m making is that hate never dies,” Ava continued. “It can go dormant and seem to disappear when it’s actually hiding and evolving, passed from generation to generation. Did you know the KKK was very active in Portland as recently as the 1980s? Someone even called Portland the skinhead capital of the US back then. We can’t say racism doesn’t exist because it’s never personally touched us. It’s here and it can be deadly.”
The agent clearly knew what she was talking about and had presented it tactfully, but scowls on several faces indicated they didn’t appreciate a lecture from an outsider. Many people in the pews studied the agent in confusion. Curious glances to neighbors were met by shrugs. No one knew who she was.
“Uh, thank you . . . Miss . . . ?” Harlan asked.
“Special Agent McLane,” she said solemnly. “I’m part of the FBI presence looking at whether or not the Fitch murders are a hate crime.”
The room erupted again.