The Killings (13 page)

I wonder if the two are related somehow? That would explain why he was dismissed,
Carmen thought
. If Jackson had been feeding delicate police information to his friend or was somehow involved in his illegal businesses, that alone would have been grounds for dismissal and would have explained why he would have tried to defend his friend from what might have been a simple arrest.

But she could find nothing linking the two of them other than a childhood friendship. She went to a nearby computer and did another search. First she checked to see if Robert Jackson had an arrest record that might have tied him to Henry Parker’s illicit business enterprises. She could find nothing. Then she began running Jackson’s genealogy. What she found intrigued her.

Born on November 9, 1888, Robert Jackson was the first child of Tonya Jackson, who worked as a chambermaid for the Jackson plantation in DeKalb County. As far as Carmen could tell, Tonya had been a single mother. The genealogy link indicated another child born nearly ten years later, labeled “Name Unknown.” Carmen frowned. Did the child die shortly after birth? She wondered if the Atlanta hall of records would contain additional information.

But that wasn’t the only thing that intrigued her.

After late 1911, there were no further records for Robert Jackson.

Did he die?
she thought. She began jotting down notes, making sure to further research Robert Jackson’s barbershop from her desktop at home. If she could find out more about him, find out if the shop survived somehow, maybe find a still-living descendant -

You’re getting all worked up,
she thought as she began gathering her things up to leave.
There’s so much here to go over. So much that -

That’s when she saw the notebook.

It was tucked along the side of the box, jammed indifferently down toward the bottom. She hadn’t noticed it at first. Now, as she carefully replaced the file folders containing the police reports, photocopies of the newspaper articles, and the unpublished newspaper article, she brought out the notebook and examined it.

It was old. Holding it gingerly, she carefully flipped open the cover and looked at the spidery handwriting on the facing page and read what was written there.

August 1, 1911 - Questioned a fellow named Moses Chandler and his friend Mike Brown on the corner of First and Oak. They gave me information on the murder of Ellen Marshall that was quite interesting. Suspect description was the same - tall, broad-shouldered, Negro, well-dressed. He was seen exiting the alleyway near the street where Miss Marshall was found dead.

Robert Jackson’s notes,
she thought. Her heart quickened a beat.

She flipped back through a few pages at random. Most of what was here was similar in tone - Robert Jackson recounting suspects, his observations on their movement, his conversations with his neighbors, people on the street, small-business owners, all this talk relating to the murders. His voice was calm, smooth, controlled.

Carmen lazily flipped forward, resigned to putting the notebook back in the box when something caught her eye.

The words here appeared to be written in a white heat, as if under extreme duress. The tone of authorship was markedly different than the calm, level-headedness displayed in the diary entries she’d read. One word in particular leaped out at her, spearing into her brain.

She closed the notebook and slipped it into her purse. Then she slid the box back in the dusty corner where she found it and exited the archive room, excited at her find.

FIFTEEN

August 7, 1911, Atlanta, Georgia

Robert was back at work in the barbershop for the first time in a week. When he’d agreed to Henry’s bizarre request/demand that he insinuate himself into the murder investigation, he had intended to work for the police during the day and still cut hair at night, but his hours at the police department had stretched long into the evening as one clue led to another before eventually slamming headlong into a dead end. He’d been to the dankest, darkest bowels of the urban wilderness, prowling gin joints, speakeasies, brothels, and gambling halls. His friendship with Henry had purchased him easy access to the seediest dives in Atlanta. Henry had put the word out urging everyone to cooperate with him. He’d filled two notebooks with rumors and suspicions and even a few drunken confessions. Hardly any of it seemed credible. The few reliable bits of information he’d accrued only deepened the mystery, and Robert had never been much for puzzles.

His head was spinning when he finally made it back home at the end of another long evening of so-called police work. He staggered through the door of his modest single-story cottage, uncorked a bottle of gin he’d purchased at one of the many speakeasies he’d been to that evening, and plopped down on his sofa, staring through his front window at the dark, empty street. He was now convinced that he was going about this thing backward. The man he sought wasn’t some low-life criminal. A guy like that wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Someone would have known him. Criminals have friends and friends talk. This guy had to have been some lonely cat with no friends, a regular guy with a face no one would remember.
Except his eyes. They remembered those hollow eyes
. Robert knew he wouldn’t find a guy like that in a speakeasy. He wasn’t sure how or if he’d ever find a guy like that.

That night, Robert slept fitfully. His dreams were dominated by the image of a dark-skinned man with black, soulless eyes wearing a black pinstriped suit. There was an emptiness emanating from the man, a great sucking void like an open grave on a starless night. The dark man knelt over the body of a woman, cutting her and plundering all her women parts. He could hear the man giggling and making little moaning sounds like the kind folks make when they’re making love. Then the man removed what looked like the woman’s breast and brought it to his mouth where he began to eat, snacking on the dead woman’s tit like he was eating a succulent fruit, dripping with a sweet red nectar.

The man turned toward him, and Robert recognized something familiar in those hollow eyes. Even covered in blood, there was something about the man that made Robert positive he knew him. Then the woman turned to look at him too. She was still alive. Goosebumps rose all over Robert’s skin and he struggled to wake himself as the woman’s mouth opened. She looked like she wanted to tell him something, but Robert didn’t want to hear it. He wanted out of this nightmare. The dark man was still greedily consuming the woman’s breast, still chuckling merrily between the chewing and swallowing and the sound of his lips smacking. He was still looking at Robert as he tore off chunk after bloody chunk and ate it. The woman was still working her lips and tongue, trying to speak through a mouthful of blood.
Wake up! Wake up! You don’t want to hear this. You have to wake up!
But what if she had something important to tell him? Something useful? Something about her murderer? Something that would give Robert a clue as to her attacker’s identity? Robert wondered and then she screamed. The sound rattled through Robert’s nerves like electricity. It vibrated through his bones. He felt like it would drive him mad if he didn’t ... 
WAKE ... UP!

Robert woke with his hands clamped over his ears and the echo of a scream still ringing in the air. The man with the dark eyes was gone. The woman was gone. The scream that had finally jarred Robert awake could have only come from him. He sat up and wiped a fine sheen of sweat from his brow. His hands were shaking and when he slipped on his slippers and stood, his legs felt weak and wobbly. That morning, Robert rose from his bed feeling no more rested than when he’d lain down. The morning sun was no more comforting than the darkness it dispelled. It was too bright, too sterile. It made Robert feel vulnerable and exposed. At least in the darkness there were places to hide.

Hide from what? From who?

The image of the man with the black soulless eyes filled his thoughts. The feeling that he knew the man returned stronger than ever and with it came a feeling of intense dread as Robert realized that if he knew this killer then the killer probably knew him as well.

Who are you?

The answer seemed so close, but the more he dug for it the more profound that ominous feeling of dread became. Instead of probing his memory further, Robert retreated from them; he shook the dream from his head and tried to concentrate on the morning ahead.

Today was Robert’s first day off since he’d started working for the Atlanta Police Department. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. After splashing water on his face and brushing his teeth with baking soda, Robert hurried into his shoes and slacks, threw on a T-shirt and a white button-down shirt, grabbed his fedora, and dashed out the door. He needed to be around other people, out of the house, with as much distance as he could place between himself and the dream of the dark man. At least now he had a pretty good idea what the killer was doing with the “trophies” he took from his victims. The feeling that he knew the murderer, that the answer was right there on the periphery of his thoughts nagged him relentlessly as he walked. He had decided to open the barbershop. He had Henry’s nephew, Monty, watching the shop all week. Monty was just learning to cut hair and Robert wondered how many heads the boy had butchered and if Robert had any customers left.

He unlocked the shop and shook his head at all the hair lying on the floor between the two barber chairs. It looked like the place hadn’t been swept all week and, knowing Monty, it probably hadn’t. Robert grabbed a broom and a dustpan and began sweeping. Minutes later, Henry Parker walked through the door.

“Hey, Robert. What’s shakin’?”

“Hey, Henry.”

“How’re you liking being an officer of the law? I heard you’ve been questioning folks at some of my establishments. Find out anything useful?” Henry cocked his head to one side and smiled. His eyes narrowed and one eyebrow rose as he locked his gaze onto Robert. His always ebullient smile slowly twisted into a sneer.

Robert felt chills race the length of his spine. Even knowing Henry’s reputation, Robert had never feared his childhood friend before, never once considered the possibility of the notorious gangster being a danger to him; that all changed with one smile.

With great effort, he held Henry’s gaze. “Uh … not really. A bunch of rumors and superstitious bullshit.”

“Like what?”

“Like some shit about the killer being possessed or something, like a vampire or a zombie.”

Henry’s expression changed to one of boyish curiosity. He had once again become the kid Robert had grown up with. “Zombies? Sho ‘nuff? Like that voodoo shit?”

“Something like that. I talked to Mike and Moses and they said they saw a man just before one of the murders who looked like he was hearing things.”

“Hearing things? Like what?”

“Like voices.”

“So the nigger’s crazy? He’d have to be crazy to be cuttin’ up bitches like he doin’. That ain’t news.”

“I don’t know if he’s crazy. He might have been high.”

“A minute ago you said he was possessed like a zombie or a vampire or something.” Henry was looking at Robert again with that same suspicious, threatening intensity.

Robert loosened his collar and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. “
They
said he looked possessed. I’m just tellin’ you what I was told.”

“But you think he was just high?”

“They said he might have been high or sleepwalking or something.”

Henry shook his head. “So we got us a nigger that’s either crazy, high, sleepwalking, or possessed by some kind of evil spirit?”

“I’d say high or crazy is more likely.”

Henry nodded, still staring at Robert suspiciously. “Yeah, I’d say you were right.”

Robert looked at Henry long and hard and Henry returned his gaze with one that could have curdled milk.

“Henry, you upset with me or something? You ain’t want me goin’ ‘round to your clubs? I thought that’s why you wanted me workin’ for the police?”

“So you can bring them paddies snoopin’ around my businesses? You got that wrong, nigger!” Henry barked, eyes blazing and nostrils flaring.

Robert winced as if he’d been struck. He’d never heard his friend use this tone. Normally Henry’s voice was calm, smooth, affable, and reassuring. This was the tone Henry reserved for his underlings and enemies. Robert was confused by it ... and worried.

“They - I didn’t know! I didn’t know they was gonna come messin’ with you over this. I never even mentioned your name!”

“You ain’t have to! They know we’s friends and they know you been questionin’ folks at my clubs, and two of the guys you questioned got murdered last night!”

“Murdered?”

“Yeah, Moses and Mike. Them two crazy niggas always gettin’ drunk and losin’ all their money at the craps tables. Somebody slit their throats from ear to ear. They found Moses outside one of my cathouses and Mike in the alley around the corner from my club.”

“Jesus.” Robert couldn’t believe it. “Who do you think could have - ?”

“It wasn’t me! Why the hell would I want to kill them two fools? They ain’t never done nothin’ to me. And why would I dump one right outside my whorehouse and the other near my club? The whore Moses spent time with before he got his fool throat cut said she heard him shoutin’ but didn’t think nothin’ of it. Moses wasn’t no small man. If he was mad at somebody, she figured whoever he was cross with was the one who needed the help. Who would have thought?”

Henry began pacing. He rubbed a hand over his face. Balled his hands into fists and turned to face Robert, looking as if he was seconds from striking his longtime friend. Robert cringed visibly even as he tried to reassure himself that Henry would never hit him. Henry was one of his oldest friends, the closest thing he had to a sibling, but siblings sometimes fought. Sometimes they even killed each other. The story of Cain and Abel came immediately to mind.

“I would have never talked to ‘em if I thought they was gonna wind up dead. Somebody must have been following me. Maybe I’m gettin’ close. Mike and Moses are the ones who said they saw the killer. Maybe he didn’t want ‘em talkin’?”