Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  The boy shook. “I’m trying to help anyway I can.”

  I leaned in closer. “Help do what?”

  “Find my sister’s killer.” His bottom lip quivered. “Ariana Waterson.”

  “What were you doing in the building?”

  “Seeing if he was around or. . .maybe if there were any clues.”

  “Damn it. You could’ve been shot and killed.” I let him go. “And you’re wasting our time!”

  Stein cleared his throat and got between us. “Come on, kid. Where’s your parents?”

  “In front of the building.”

  Oddly enough, the boy didn’t sit by the Waterson family today.

  Why isn’t he in church?

  I leaned in Haven’s direction as she bopped from side and side to the choir’s song. “How well do you know the Waterson family?”

  She stopped clapping and raised her voice over the music. “Very well. My mother not only was Ariana’s Sunday school teacher, but she would babysit her too when Tammy and Lewis had date nights.”

  “Did your mother watch Ariana’s brother too?”

  Haven gave me a strange look. “Ariana was an only child.”

  Terror filled my chest. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Tammy could barely have Ariana. I remember the church prayed over her. Once she had her daughter, she tried again, but couldn’t. The doctor told her she would have no more kids.”

  I shook my head. “No. That can’t be correct. Please ask your mother.”

  Haven widened her eyes. Still, she turned her mother’s way and whispered in her ear. Her mother shook her head no.

  The song ended.

  Everyone began to sit down.

  Haven returned to me. “Yeah. Ariana was an only child.”

  “Goddamn it!”

  Several people in the front turned my way and scowled.

  “Oh. Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll be right back.”

  Looking like an idiot, I slipped out of the pew and headed to the back.

  Behind me, a man began to speak in front of the church.

  If Ariana doesn’t have a brother, then who the hell did we chase after days ago?

  Once I got outside, I pulled out my phone and dialed Stein.

  Stein jumped on the line. “King, you need me to save you from church?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m surprised you weren’t calling for rescue.”

  “The singing is worth getting out of bed. We’ll see if the sermon doesn’t put me to sleep.” I walked over to the steps but didn’t go down them. “Remember when we found Melody’s body, days ago. The last victim.”

  “Of course. I had a nightmare about that last night.”

  “Remember the boy that was there.”

  “The teenager. Yeah. He was Ariana Waterson’s brother. I walked him to the front of the building and handed him over to his parents. He hugged Mrs. Waterson.”

  “Did she look like she knew him?”

  “I didn’t really take the time to check. I just headed back. Why?”

  “Ariana Waterson didn’t have a brother. She was an only child.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Could he have been a cousin or—”

  “If he was, why not say so? Something’s off about him being at the crime scene and then lying.”

  “But do you think he’s the Unsub? The kid barely looked eighteen—”

  “In India, Amardeep was eight years old when he killed his 8-month-old sister and 6-month-old cousin. John Venables was 10 when he killed—”

  “Those kids killed babies and younger victims. Additionally, the cleaning and ritual of our murders don’t fall in line to being under a teenager mastermind.”

  “Which suggests the kid has a helper.” I gripped the phone harder. “Caucasian female Jasmine Richardson was 12 years old when she started dating Jeremy Steinke who was 23. He convinced her that he was a 300-year-old werewolf and that it would be a good idea to kill her parents and little brother.”

  Stein sighed into the line.

  “I could keep going on and on. Craig Price, 13 years old and African American. He started stabbing women. Barry Loukaitis, Caucasian and 14, shot up his Algebra class.”

  “King. . .”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want our Unsub to be a teenager. If it is, then we fucked up.”

  “We did.” I stared off at all the cars in the parking lot, pissed with myself. “We should have taken him in regardless. He was on the scene. Had he been a grown man, he would have been questioned. Now we’ll have to find him. Get everyone on it. You spent the most time with him, walking the teen to the front. You think you could give our artist a description.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “There were news cameras out there. Someone may have footage of that day. We should be able to find him in the crowd.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Give Richards this update. Maybe she can give us another angle with the profile. With all the execution of the kidnappings, this has to be a team of two. Perhaps, she can give us a good idea of who would help him.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Let me know anything as soon as possible.”

  “I will.”

  We hung up and my heart boomed with insanity.

  The boy shook. “I’m trying to help any way I can.”

  I leaned in closer. “Help do what?”

  “Find my sister’s killer.” His bottom lip quivered. “Ariana Waterson.”

  The teenager had been right in my hold. But with the horror of the Fullbrooke Six, I hadn’t thought the kid would have had anything to do with it. In all fairness, I had still believed a white man had been behind the whole case. It made sense. The girls were all black as if some racist white guy was preying on them.

  The last thing I would have guessed was a teenaged boy helping with the kidnapping of little girls.

  But this is making sense.

  The boy looked around 15 or 16 at the most. It would have made sense for Felicia Drake at 12 to talk to him. He could be from the community.

  Jesus. He probably goes to this church.

  I turned around, stared at the front door, and pulled out the phone again.

  Stein picked up on the first ring. “Yes.”

  “I think he goes to this church. All of the victims did. It can’t be a coincidence. He must be using the church as his hunting grounds.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I actually want a team outside of the church, but that wouldn’t bode well. Everyone here is still upset. There’s high tension. And the Fullbrooke Six parents are here. We can’t do that to them.”

  “Then, Richards and I will sit in an unmarked car, park near the door, and take a look at everyone leaving.”

  “Exactly. Have some backup, but make sure they’re hidden. I don’t want the congregation being spooked. And I definitely don’t want the kid’s partner to think we’re on to him.”

  “I’ll have the other agents a block away.”

  “Good.” I headed to the door. “Meanwhile, I’ll keep a look out for the kid.”

  Chapter 21

  A Person of Interest

  Alexander

  My heart boomed in my chest as I made it back to the church. When I entered the main space, I took my time walking down the aisle and scanned every face. The choir was up and singing again.

  Are you in here?

  There were many teenaged boys in suits, sitting by their parents. Most looked bored. A few turned my way, intrigued. However, that would have been a normal reaction for any teenager.

  I got to the pew and sat down.

  Haven leaned my way. “What’s going on?”

  “There was a boy at the last scene. We chased after him. When we caught him, he said he was Ariana’s brother and that he was there to help find clues.”

  “But she doesn’t have a brother.”

  “Which
is why he has now become a person of interest.”

  She looked around. “And he could be in here?”

  “It makes sense. All the victims went to this church. They would have known him.”

  A sad expression hit her face. “They would have easily walked off with him.”

  “Correct.”

  Pastor Miller strode up to the pulpit.

  This morning, I had planned on listening to what he had to say. Since I was coming to church, it wouldn’t have hurt to sample a little religion for the week. But now I had a lead to the case. I wasn’t sure how much this teenager was involved, but I knew that at the bare minimum, he helped get these girls.

  I went over all the cases in my mind.

  Felicia Drake never made it home from church. Her friends had waved goodbye. Her house was a short walk from there—less than five minutes. None of the neighbors saw her go inside. A block away, some kids found her red book bag with her textbooks, phone, wallet full of next week’s lunch money, and house key.

  Felicia would have left with a boy from her church. This congregation was family. He could have told Felicia that he had to show her something or convinced her of anything to get her away. It wouldn’t have been difficult at all.

  The teenager wouldn’t have been seen as a threat.

  Ten years old Karen Brookes didn’t make it to her ballet class. The boy could have been in the lobby. Once again, he must’ve been a good friend to all the girls—some sort of helper. I believed the victims knew him enough to walk off with him.

  Why were they so comfortable with him? He would have been in high school. They were all middle and elementary school. What am I missing?

  Karen’s mother had dropped her off for ballet class.

  The third victim Ariana Waterson was taken in the church bathroom after Sunday school. Mrs. Barron had been her teacher.

  I leaned Haven’s way. “How are the Sunday school classes determined?”

  “Each class is divided by age groups. Toddlers are in one class. Three to five is in another. My mom has six to eight.”

  “Then, nine to ten and eleven to twelve?”

  “Yes, but the last group is eleven to thirteen.”

  “And what about the teenagers?”

  “When you’re fourteen and up, you serve as assistants for the Sunday school teachers. There’s three for each class.”

  Adrenaline spiked in my veins. “Do the teens assist the same group each time?”

  “No. Each month it changes.” With a sad expression, she shook her head. “Please. . .please don’t tell me that you think that is how he’s picking the girls.”

  I nodded. “We’ll have to get the Sunday school attendance and any other information from Pastor Miller, but we must do it in a way that doesn’t cause panic. If I’m right, then he’s here. In the pews right now. Possibly watching us.”

  “Mom and I eat dinner at his house after church. You’re coming of course.”

  I frowned. “Of course.”

  The fourth victim was Emma Tucker. She’d been taken out of her home while her mother was on a date. The fifth victim, Shelly Darby had been taken from the movies. Her mother wanted to see an adult film, so she let her kids—Shelly and her older brother watch a cartoon in the theater next to hers. Shelly was eight. Her brother was fifteen. Perhaps, the teen was with him at the movies or simply followed them there.

  And then the final victim was Melody Luther who had been taken right out of Fanny’s restaurant as her parents argued.

  A teenager is helping kidnap the kids.

  All we had to do was find the teen that was around in all of these moments. Shelly’s older brother was fifteen. Who was his friends? Did Emma’s sister invite anyone over to the house while she babysat? Was there someone that she told? A boyfriend or friend who could have somehow let it slip to others.

  This changes everything.

  I directed my view back to Pastor Miller. He had his hands in the air, yelling about souls. Many nodded their head with his words.

  One woman jumped up. “Yes. Always! He’s always there.”

  Pastor Miller’s voice rose. “During trials which seem meaningless to us at the time, God has a purpose!”

  “Yes!” A woman yelled behind me.

  “I don’t think you heard me.” Pastor Miller left the pulpit and wiped the sweat off his face with a hanky. “God has a purpose.”

  “Yes. He does.” Mrs. Barron clapped. “Yes. He does.”

  “You see?” Pastor Miller wiped his head again. “God provides in accordance to what we need.”

  “That’s right,” A man said in the front.

  Pastor Miller smiled at him. “God is not always going to give you what you want.”

  “No, sir,” Mrs. Barron clapped.

  “But God will provide!” Pastor Miller walked forward to the center of the aisle. “God will give us what we need.”

  I scanned some of the pews, checking the teenagers’ faces.

  “God wants us to trust Him for our Daily Bread.” Pastor Miller took a few steps down the aisle. “I don’t think any of you hear me in the back.”

  A woman yelled, “We hear you pastor!”

  “Some of us in here woke up complaining this morning.” Pastor Miller shook his head. “Some of you all opened your eyes and complained that it was too cold or too warm. You opened your eyes and was mad at the person you slept next to. Some of us in here woke, upset with your children. Somebody woke up, tired of their body. They want to be skinnier. Or they don’t like the way their face look.”

  “Speak to them, Pastor.”

  “You look in the mirror and you don’t like what you see?” Pastor Miller frowned at the congregation. “You don’t look young enough? You don’t like pretty enough?”

  “Speak.”

  “You’re mad at the gray hairs on your head and the fat on your belly.”

  “Lord.”

  “You go into your bank account and you’re not happy with the numbers. Don’t have enough zeros.”

  “Yes, Pastor.”

  “Don’t have enough commas.” Pastor Miller walked down the aisle. “You want more to buy, but don’t have the dollars to do it.”

  “It’s not right!” someone yelled.

  “In all their doings, the most glaring sin of the Israelites was the sin of ingratitude.” Pastor Miller scowled. “Their attitude was one of ungratefulness and thanklessness. Are you Israelites?”

  I stopped my view at the pews in front of me.

  A teenage boy sat in the front. He wore a black suit with a gray tie. I would not have truly noticed him, if he hadn’t been nervously glancing behind and looking my way.

  Is that you?

  Pastor Miller moved down the aisle. “Instead of continuing to praise God for His deliverance from Egypt, instead of worshiping Him and acknowledging His continued presence with them, all they could do was murmur and complain that He had not done enough.”

  “Yes. Lord.”

  The boy didn’t look back anymore as if he could feel me watching him. Meanwhile, everyone else in the front pew had turned in Pastor Miller’s direction.

  Haven leaned my way. “Who are you looking at?”

  “The boy in the front row. Black suit. Gray tie.”

  “That’s Vernon Miller.”

  Shocked, I asked, “The Pastor’s son?”

  “Grandson.” Haven held a sad smile. “Pastor Miller has three daughters. Two are married and live in town. One is a doctor. The other is a principal at the elementary school. And then there’s Vernon’s mother—Julia.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Pastor Miller took Vernon away from his daughter when he was ten. People said she was on drugs and had neglected her kids.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “No one really knows, but some say she comes out on Main Street late at night and gives blow jobs for twenty dollars.”

  “Shh.” Mrs. Barron scowled at us. “Really, Haven? Why would you
be talking about blow jobs right now?”

  Nodding, I leaned forward. “Sorry. That was your daughter. I’m trying to keep quiet and listen to the sermon.”

  “I understand.” Mrs. Barron smiled at me. “She’s a naughty girl.”

  Haven grinned my way. “Really? You’re telling on me?”

  “Haven.” Mrs. Barron tapped her daughter’s leg. “You know better.”

  Chuckling to myself, I looked back at Vernon Miller.

  But he was gone.

  Goddamn it. Where did he go?

  Chapter 22

  Junior Psycho

  Haven

  Signaling the end of service, the Junior choir came up to the front to sing three songs. They didn’t have robes like the main choir. The girls wore blue dresses. The boys had on blue ties.

  Through a typical service, the choir kids sat in the first pew on the far right. The whole time they fidgeted, played amongst themselves and whispered throughout the service. It caused the old folks in the congregation to screw their eyes and scowl at them.

  However, once those cutie pies stood and sang, all transgressions were forgiven. Their voices were as welcome as cool rain on a hot summer day. And it wasn’t just those adorable little faces or the merriness within their tone. The Junior choir reminded the old of the innocence of youth, soothing their spirits and stirring sweet memories. They symbolized hope to us all—that the future generation was not so bad off. There were good ones—leaders, spiritual singers, and lovers of the Lord.

  I thought about my time on the Junior Choir. My group had been a mess to get in line. Mrs. Tilly would have to bribe us with chocolate chip cookies to keep us quiet during practice. And on Sundays, she brought a red velvet cake to the church. Everyone who listened and sung their notes just right was guaranteed a slice of the best red velvet cake in the State of Georgia. Due to that, we didn’t play around. We sang our little hearts out.