The Killings (10 page)

“Oh, that’s a fine paper. I get the Sunday edition. I like my crossword and the comics and the editorials. There’s some good columns in there. You read the Sunday morning editorial pieces, ma’am?”

“I do,” Carmen admitted. She knew all the columnists, too. Even had a chance to meet some of the syndicated columnists, such as Lawrence Pitts, who worked for the
Miami-Herald.

“Did you read that piece that young man wrote about the president?” Mr. Brown asked. “He’s such a smarmy ass sonofabitch. Claimed the president was a misguided fool who-”

“Did you ever know the people who lived in that house over there, across the street?” Carmen asked him, cutting him off mid-sentence. She gestured to the house almost directly across the street from his, to their right. It was a small cottage, with fading brown paint and white trim. An old elm tree stood in the center of the yard, providing ample shade over the garage and part of the driveway. It didn’t look like anybody was home yet, but Carmen knew from previous trips and discussions with Wayne that this was the house he claimed Grandma Sable had lived in during the late 1960s. It was the house she’d researched in the County Records department at city hall.

“That house?” Mr. Brown peered at it. Something in his face changed. It was so subtle that Carmen thought she was imagining it at first. It was the look somebody got when they thought of something unpleasant, like a dark secret that was best left buried. As quickly as the look came it was gone. Mr. Brown dismissed the house with that shooing gesture again. “That house gone through so many owners, they all seem the same to me. Mr. Washington was a good man, though. He owned the place from 1985 until 2002 or so.”

“What about the owners before that?”

Mr. Brown shrugged. “I remember all of them back to when I first moved here in 1942. The family who lived there when we came here, they was Cassidy, I think. Another family bought the place in 1950.”

“What was their name?”

“Wellington.” Mr. Brown seemed suddenly evasive. “Though the first person I genuinely liked who lived there was Mr. Washington. He was a gentleman.”

“How long did the Wellingtons own that home?”

“Almost twenty years.”

“Did they ever live there?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you ever remember seeing this boy?” Carmen had the photograph in position in her purse, ready to pull out when the time was right. Now she slid it out and showed it to him. It was a reproduction of a color print from Wayne Williams’s family photo album. It showed Wayne Williams as a boy of about eight, his grin infectious. Wayne was centered in the photograph, surrounded by other kids, Black and White. The photo looked like it had been taken at a child’s birthday party.

Mr. Brown looked at the photo for a long moment. “A little bit. Don’t remember his name. I think he lived over there.” Once again, Mr. Brown gestured down the street, waving his hand as if indicating which direction Wayne had lived. “He lived around the corner. He looks like the same kid that used to run around with the other kids around here. They was always racing down the street on their bikes and Big Wheels and what-have-you.”

Carmen nodded. Mr. Brown did have a good memory.

Carmen decided to show the Ace she had up her sleeve. “So a White family owned that house and when I asked you if they actually lived there, you asked me what I meant about that.” Carmen frowned. “That’s strange. I always thought an old Black woman lived there. At least that’s what I was told.”

A look of fear flashed upon Mr. Brown’s face. All the cheeriness seemed to evaporate from his expression. “Old Black woman. Nah, no old Black woman lived there as long as I been here.”

“That’s odd, because the boy in the picture I just showed you told me that he and the other kids in the neighborhood used to visit her,” Carmen said. She tapped the picture with her forefinger. “They called her Grandma Sable. He said she was really old, but that she was kind to them. Passed out homemade candy and trinkets she made. Used to tell them stories from the days before Reconstruction.”

“Before Reconstruction?” Mr. Brown began to look nervous. His eyes shifted from Carmen, to the house across the street, to his own front porch. Avoidance. “Damn woman would have to be over a hundred years old at the time. I woulda remembered that.”

“I think you do remember her, but you’re afraid to tell me.”

That seemed to get Mr. Brown’s attention. He looked at her, his face slack, nervous. “What you talkin’ about?”

“I’m talking about for a man with such a sharp memory, you appear to be denying this woman lived directly across the street from you.” Carmen’s tone wasn’t harsh or accusatory; rather, it was calm, the tone she used when trying to draw information out of reluctant witnesses on stories she reported on. “The man in this photograph was adamant that the woman I’m speaking of lived here. He said all the kids in the neighborhood knew her. That many of the adults in the neighborhood knew her.” Her gaze was direct. “You’re the only person left who would remember her. You were living here at the time. Everybody else has moved away. Don’t lie to me, Mr. Brown. I can tell you know
exactly
who I’m talking about.”

“I - I don’t know who tha hell you talkin’ about.”

“I think you do, sir.”

His eyes darted around; he seemed to want to look everywhere but at the house across the street, or at Carmen. Finally he sighed, gave another glance around, and then said, “Okay, okay ... you’re right. She
did
live there. I ... I do remember her now.”

“Why are you afraid to talk about her?”

“You think I’m afraid?”

“It’s written all over you, Mr. Brown.”

Mr. Brown had a
what, me afraid?
look. He quickly tried to compose himself. “Look, your friend in that picture was right. That old lady did live there. She lived there for a long time. She was there when my family moved here in ‘42.”

“The Cassidy family, the Wellingtons ... did those families ever live there?” Carmen asked.

Mr. Brown looked nervous. “Well, uh ... I don’t know.”

“You ever see those families?”

“Uh ...”

“They were White, weren’t they?”

“Okay, maybe they were.”

“And even though they were all White, they never lived in those homes. Grandma Sable was the only person who lived there then, right?”

Mr. Brown gave up. “Okay, okay ... she lived there. You’re right. The original owner of the house, don’t remember his name now, Sable had been a longtime servant for his family going all the way to before the war. His family ... his descendants ... they let her live in that house. Story I heard was that way back when, she’d come upon hard times and they’d taken her in. She’d apparently been living in a shack all by herself out in the woods with no food, no running water, no heat. Said she was almost dead when they took her in.”

“Do you know how old she was?”

Mr. Brown shrugged. “No. But ... I heard rumors ...”

“What kind of rumors?”

Again, that look of avoidance. “About how old she was.”

“Like she was probably older than a hundred,” Carmen said. Once again there was uncertainty on her true age. Carmen pressed on. “So that house was bought for her, and all those previous owners were descendants of the original owner. The Jones family and the Reynolds family … they took over the house in name only for the sole purpose of allowing Grandma Sable to live there. Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Brown said. He continued to look nervous. “But if you’d known her ... had
seen
her ...you’d know ...”

“Know what, Mr. Brown?”

“That woman ... she had powers ...”

“What kind of powers?”

“Dark powers.” Mr. Brown regarded Carmen from across his porch. Despite his great fear, which Carmen could feel coming off him in waves, he was holding strong. “Look, you gots to understand. My own great-grandma, when she came to visit one time when I was maybe nine or ten years old, she realized who was living there, she told me to be careful around her. Said she remembered her from a long time ago. Claimed she was a very powerful voodoo priestess.”

“How powerful was she?”

“
Very
powerful. So powerful, you don’t want to know. So powerful that to talk to you about her makes me scared!”

“But she’s dead, Mr. Brown,” Carmen said, her voice soothing. She could tell Mr. Brown’s fear was taking greater hold and she needed to pull back. “She can’t hurt you. Whatever power she may have had over you ... it’s all gone now.”

“But it
isn’t
!” Mr. Brown said, and this time his voice seemed to seethe with rage. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing in intensity as he focused on her. “Can’t you see? All those young women turning up dead? And them transvestites and street Parkers before that and all them kids got killed years before, the Atlanta Child Murders. And I can tell you about other murders going back years ...
decades
. There’s always people gettin’ killed around here and it ain’t just the drugs and them gangs. It’s that woman’s evil. It didn’t die when she did. Whatever she conjured up, she left it behind after she passed on.”

“I believe you, Mr. Brown,” Carmen said. “I just have one last question for you.”

“Ask me, and then you gotta git gone.”

“Why does her evil still haunt this place? Why would she have caused all this?”

For a moment, Mr. Brown didn’t answer her. The old man and Carmen stared at each other, neither one breaking their gaze. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “But whatever it was, it started a long time ago. Some say it started as far back as them Ripper killings a hundred years ago or so.”

“Ripper killings?”

“The Atlanta Ripper. Look it up.” Mr. Brown seemed to regain his strength. Gone was the intense fear he’d displayed earlier. Now it seemed he was embarrassed by the earlier fear and was trying to make up for it by increased bravado. “Now git on out of here. I got things to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brown.” Carmen turned away and began heading down the driveway toward the gate.

“Don’t come back here no more!” Mr. Brown called after her. “I don’t want to talk about that witch woman no more, ya hear?”

“I hear you and thank you, Mr. Brown,” Carmen replied, raising her right hand in a farewell gesture. She didn’t look back at him as she let herself out and headed down the sidewalk toward her car.

Once in the confines of her Nissan she heaved a sigh of relief. She reached for her bag and rewound the digital recorder she’d had stashed near the mesh of one of the bag’s pockets. She stopped it, pressed play. Mr. Brown’s voice carried through strong and audible. Satisfied, Carmen hit stop. She’d replay the encounter later tonight and transcribe it.

Carmen started the vehicle and pulled away from the curb. She had plenty to go on now.

***

As the silver Nissan Altima pulled away, Michael Carter watched. The taillights flashed once briefly and then winked out of existence as the vehicle made a right-hand turn.

Michael was sitting on a low brick fence that bordered the property of a house two doors down. He’d been sitting there watching the neighborhood, having come across it on this early evening’s long walk through the city. The Fury had been growling inside him, wanting release, and Michael knew he had to feed it again. The question was feeding it with the right bitch. There were plenty out there, but it had to be the right one. His wandering through the city on foot had been a hunt for the perfect bitch. And tonight he’d found her.

He’d watched that totally irresistible light-skinned bitch climb out of the Nissan that was parked at the curb. Michael was immediately drawn to her - her curvy body, those perfect, supple breasts that bounced beneath that tight white blouse that hugged her form, that perfect, round ass, and those long legs. Her hair was long and black, falling to her shoulders, and from the angle he’d spotted her, her face was like that of an angel. Michael was still waiting there for another glimpse of her when she finally returned to her car. Killing bitches he knew was getting risky, but killing a whore from outside their neighborhood, someone with whom he had no connection, that was safer. It made all the sense in the world. His penis grew as he watched her get back in the car. Damn, but her face was perfect too - big brown eyes, cock-sucking lips with just a touch of lip gloss, gold hoop earrings in both ears, a slender, bitable neck. The Fury was fully awake now, demanding he take her. But Michael watched her instead. To take her here would spell trouble for him - her screams would attract everybody in the neighborhood. He had to track her, take her down the way he’d taken down Nona Gates and the others. He had to play this carefully.

It was a good thing he had an excellent memory. Her Altima was a brand new model. Silver. Georgia license plate.

With that information saved in his memory banks, all he had to do now was use it to find out where she lived. It was amazing the things you could find on the Internet. Michael pulled out his Smart Phone and typed the license plate into his search engine. In seconds he had a name, an address, and even a phone number. Carmen Mendoza. So, she wasn’t Black after all. She was a Latina, but there was obviously some African blood in her. That’s what the Fury was responding to ... and it was enough.

TWELVE

August 2, 1911, Downtown Atlanta, Georgia 

It was eleven thirty p.m. and still hot and humid. Sweat stuck Robert’s shirt to his skin along his back and armpits. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt as he tried to listen to what Moses Chandler and Mike Brown were telling him about what they’d seen the night shortly after Ellen Marshall was murdered.

Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Ragtime” was being played in the roadhouse to great laughter and cheers. The crowd inside was having a hell of a time dancing and drinking and most likely fornicating in the corner booths. As a single man, Robert envied the other single men who were inside the establishment and were no doubt having a great time. However, duty called and he was doing his part to help catch the scoundrel who had been terrorizing the colored community for the past eight months.