Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  “Leave me alone!” I dabbed at more tears and hurried off. “You lying—”

  “This can’t be my phone.” Blake rushed after me. “I must’ve accidentally picked up somebody else’s phone.”

  I got to the table. It was empty. Melody was no longer there. Only the polka dot stuffed animal lay in her chair.

  Blake arrived. “I bet it was the guys, baby. You got to believe me. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t—”

  “Where’s Melody?” I looked around the restaurant. “Melody!”

  Blake lowered and checked under the table. “She probably got scared from all the arguing.”

  “Melody?” I looked behind us, to the side, and then near the door. “Melody?”

  “Maybe, she went to the bathroom and we didn’t see her go.” Blake raced to the back.

  “Melody!” I rushed outside the restaurant. “Melody!”

  Our waitress hurried outside. “You can’t find your little girl?”

  “No.” I turned around and looked down the other side of the road. “Melody! She. . .she must’ve ran off. . . Melody!”

  Someone muted the TVs as other customers rose and searched around with me.

  The waitress hurried down the street. “Melody! Melody, where are you?”

  My body shook. From the outside, I looked through the restaurant’s window. Others in the place left their tables and helped. All yelled my baby’s name.

  My stomach twisted. My knees buckled, but I had to keep on standing.

  I hurried in the other direction. “Melody! Baby, please! Where are you, Melody?!”

  Chapter 1

  Black Girls Matter

  Alexander

  All humans had the power in their hands to kill. Thankfully, most were afraid to use it. The ones who didn’t fear murder, controlled life itself.

  We heard about serial killers crossing that dangerous psychological line into the act of murder. There was a big leap from the fantasy phase to the actual criminal act. It was the impulse control mechanism that was instilled in human beings. Basically, we knew it was wrong to kill another human for personal reasons or motivations. But when one combined the traits of psychopaths with the lack of impulse control, it could be the formula for disaster.

  Special Agent Brett Stein drove us to the location. “This is going to be a shit show, King.”

  “Let’s hope we learn something from this new dead victim.” I sipped some of my coffee, undid my seat belt, and prepared myself for the craziness ahead.

  Stein stopped the car. We waited for a bus to pass so we could enter the parking lot.

  On the huge bus, a large ad covered the side, displaying a new tv series Colors of Love.

  I stared at the ad. Under a big blue sky, the sun set, and a big white man wrapped his arms around a honeyed complexion woman. The man’s shirt was off, exposing his muscles. The woman’s dress was close to dropping to the ground. Passion covered her face. A field of black lilies surrounded their feet.

  I frowned. “Have you seen this show yet?”

  “No, but I’ve got it downloaded to my computer. Whenever we have time, I’m going to check it out.”

  “It looks stupid.”

  “You think most shows look stupid.” Agent Stein grinned. “I’m surprised you’re not excited about this one.”

  “Why would I be excited?”

  “You look like the hero?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do. Blue eyes and the whole muscular frame. Tanned skin and insanely tall.”

  I stared at him. “I had no idea how much you check me out.”

  “Well, now you do. Who knew that Alexander King could also be a heartthrob?” Stein laughed. “Can I get your autograph, Agent King?”

  Annoyed, I swallowed more coffee, instead of slinging it on Stein’s face.

  The bus left, taking with it that ridiculous ad.

  Stein drove us into the parking lot of the abandoned building—the latest location for a new dead black girl. I stared ahead. Crowds of people shouted and protested.

  “Here we go.” I shook my head. “Park over there. We might as well meet the crowd and news cameras head-on. If we try to sneak past them, then they’ll just chase us.”

  I rolled down the window.

  “Black girls matter! We won’t be silent!” The large crowd held up huge signs.

  Someone had pasted Fullbrooke’s missing girls on all of them. Ages 5 to 12. Pretty brown eyes and skin. Smiles that warmed the heart. Cute buttoned noses. Perfect little bows on most of their heads. They had been labeled The Fullbrooke Six—all taken in the past six months.

  Currently, those pictures haunted my nights. I wouldn’t get much sleep until I found this maniac.

  Rubbing my eyes, I climbed out of the car, headed off, took a last chug of my coffee, and handed it to one of the local deputies standing around. “Tape the area. You’ve got everyone walking around. We need a border!”

  “Yes, sir.” The deputy hurried off.

  Only out of the car for a few seconds and that Georgia heat assaulted me. I wiped the sweat away, hating the South—humidity, mosquitos, and racism. The only thing that made the South bearable for me was the music and food.

  I frowned. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  Stein got to my side. “At least it’s a sunny morning.”

  “Is it?”

  “Not excited about our newest gift?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Me either.” Sighing, he walked with me. “At least I’ll have a new nightmare.”

  “New nightmares are always better than old ones.” I glanced off to my right.

  “Black girls matter!” A black man in a suit yelled into the electric megaphone. “Black girls matter!”

  I squinted to get a good look at his face.

  Pastor Miller.

  He turned my way, scowled, and spoke into the megaphone, “They got these white boys out here and you know they don’t care!”

  “That’s right!” A woman yelled from the back. “You tell them, Pastor.”

  We’re not a bunch of white boys. We’re FBI, and we’re trying to stop this. Trust me.

  “They don’t care!” Pastor Miller glared at me. “But we care! And we aren’t going to take this anymore!”

  I do care. I can’t get their names out of my head—Felicia, Karen, Ariana, Emma, Shelly, and Melody. I think about every little girl. They haunt me.

  “These white boys aren’t here to help!” Pastor Miller went on. “They’re here to do the devil’s work.”

  “That’s right,” another yelled.

  “And the devil is always busy.”

  A woman clapped. “Yes, he is.”

  I should’ve brought more coffee.

  “I don’t think Pastor Miller likes you,” Stein said on my side.

  “We didn’t start on the right foot.”

  “You should’ve let him help more when we first arrived.”

  “He’s a pastor, not an FBI agent. What the hell was he going to do?”

  “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.

  The local police didn’t do much sleuthing and labeled Felicia as a runaway. Many argued that Fullbrooke’s force represented a generational network of racist white boys. It was hard for women or people of other ethnic groups, religions, or sexuality to remain on the force. While some might get hired, they always quit after a week.

  Whether due to racism or not, the cops fucked up. They closed the case and assumed Felicia had run away, even when all the details screamed more had happened.

  There was no news coverage of Felicia. Not one article or mention on TV. But that was to be expected. Although black kids went missing at a higher rate than white kids, many people never heard about them. The FBI's National Crime Information Center did a report that my entire team had to read. The data showed that missing white children received far more media coverage than missing black and brown children put together.

  Therefore, Fullbrooke was a perfect town for a serial killer that targeted little black girls.

  And then more girls went missing. And the black community got scared. And they decided to stop depending on the police to solve it. They united. Pastor Miller and Fullbrooke Baptist church stepped in, going out into the streets themselves, searching day and night for those girls. More churches joined. Then parents and teachers.

  But was it all the police’s fault? Only God knew.

  These families didn't have the financial resources to respond appropriately when their children went missing. They couldn’t afford a private investigator. In most cases, they didn’t know what to do. Many were under the misconception that they had to wait 48 hours before filing
a police report, when the waiting period varied by location.

  Pastor Miller and others protested.

  Still, Fullbrooke police didn’t call in the FBI.

  Then two months ago, a group led by a fourteen-year-old activist went to Washington D.C. with hundreds of other kids her age and their parents. They protested the unsolved missing persons cases involving black women and girls all around the state. And that brought the cameras to the Fullbrooke Six. And with it being an election year, Georgia’s mayor and governor had to act like they cared.

  Without Pastor Miller, his congregation, and the fourteen-year-old girl making noise, these cases would have never gained national coverage and my unit may have never been called.

  Recently, newspapers were now naming our serial killer—The Angel Maker due to the way he left the little girls. A reporter had snuck into the crime scene and spotted the gold wings. So far, we were able to keep the newspapers from publicly giving away those details. Still, they threw the name on the psycho to sell more papers. However, I think they called him that because it helped everyone sleep at night, knowing those little girls were flying around in heaven with new fluffy wings.

  Why did you call them psycho? I would think that Miller is your enemy. No. You like that Miller brings the cameras your way? You want everyone to know.

  I didn’t like the name, Angel Maker. It would give the sick, twisted fuck purpose. If he thought he was creating angels, then he would do it more.

  You’re no Angel Maker to me. I can’t wait to find you and end this.

  Stein and I arrived at the entrance of the abandoned building.

  He looked my way. “Are you ready for your new nightmare?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Stein had been on my unit for over five years, tracking serial killers that targeted kids. It was easy for us. Other units had fathers and mothers on them. Cases like these hit too close to home. Ours were all single men with no children.

  Since I’d been put in charge, our unit had solved twenty-five cases. We teamed up with the town’s local police, created a task force to investigate the killers, and always caught them.

  Maybe, we were so good because we did more than take the cases home. We cut open our chest and put the files in our hearts. And through all that, we did our best to not let the darkness of these cases seep into our souls.