The Killings Read online

  “You really is a square, ain’t you? I mean ‘pony,’ ‘girl,’ ‘powder.’”

  “Girl? Oh, you mean cocaine?”

  “Yeah, man. Cocaine.”

  “You know, he could have been on cocaine. I’ve seen guys get all weird like that after snortin’ pony all night,” Mike added.

  “Yeah, you right. He might have been high or something. I don’t know. It was just more like the cat was sleepwalkin’ than high.” Moses answered as Robert continued scribbling in his little notebook.

  Another song started up within the nightclub. Inside, a glass shattered to the sound of laughter. Whatever it was that happened in the roadhouse, it completely shattered the mood. Moses and Mike seemed to regain their composure.

  “Listen, we need to get back inside,” Moses said. “We gots women in there waitin’ on us.”

  “Sure you don’t want to come in and have a nip of somethin’?” Mike asked Robert. His tone was friendly and open now. “I’m buyin’.”

  “Thanks,” Robert said, flashing a smile. “But I’ll take a rain check. Thanks both y’all for your help.”

  And with that Moses and Mike went back into the roadhouse, and Robert took a step down Irwin Street, heading into the darkness where Ellen Marshall had met her end.

  THIRTEEN

  August 4, 1911, Downtown Atlanta, Georgia

  Main Street was busy this Thursday afternoon as Detective Martin Douglas climbed out of his Ford and retrieved his hat and coat from the rear seat. Shops were open and doing a bustling business, and the street was filled with traffic - automobile, bicycle, and horse-and-buggy, all jockeying for position. Damn street was getting so crowded with traffic, the chief of police was drawing up plans with the city commissioner to put in some kind of street lights. Other cities across the country were beginning similar measures, and since Atlanta was in the beginning stages of replacing their gas lamps with electric streetlights, it made sense to install some kind of traffic lights. This year alone there’d been a dozen accidents between automobiles and horse and buggies, three of them fatal. It got to the point where Martin hated driving the Ford anywhere in town. He much preferred driving it on the country roads on the outskirts of town.

  Martin climbed the steps to the new police headquarters and let himself in. He threaded his way through the lobby and down the hallway. He took a deep breath as he steeled himself for his meeting with the chief.

  He stopped in front of Chief Marshall’s office and rapped lightly on the closed door. It sounded like Chief Marshall was in there talking to someone; the moment he rapped, the conversation stopped. “Yes?” Chief Marshall asked.

  “It’s Detective Douglas,” Martin called out.

  “Come on in.”

  Martin stepped inside and started in surprise.

  Seated in one of the chairs Chief Marshall had for visitors was Officer Lacey. The younger officer grinned at Martin. Officer Lacey looked like he had just come off his afternoon shift. The top button of his collar was unbuttoned, his tie was loosened, and the standard-issue cap all patrol officers wore was resting on the edge of Chief Marshall’s desk. There was something about that grin that put Martin on guard.

  “I thought you wanted to see me at four,” Martin said to Chief Marshall.

  “That’s correct,” Chief Marshall answered. “And it is four o’clock. Have a seat.” He gestured to the empty seat next to Officer Lacey.

  Suspicious, Martin sat down, ignoring Officer Lacey.

  “I asked Officer Lacey to sit in on this meeting, since he’s had some success in the arrests of more than half of our suspects in the Ripper murders,” Chief Marshall said.

  Martin scowled. “Success? You call hauling in half a dozen men on suspicions, hearsay, and flimsy evidence success?”

  Officer Lacey turned to Chief Marshall. “See what I mean, Chief? He just doesn’t understand. That’s the kind of attitude I gotta deal with.”

  Chief Marshall ignored Officer Lacey’s comment. His cold gray eyes fixed on Martin’s. “So tell me the latest.”

  Martin brought out his notebook and began flipping through it. “Well, you already know we have an ID on the victim found Easter Sunday. Poor woman was unidentified for so long. Name was Mary Kate Sledge. Coroner said there was a deep slash to her neck and that her skull was crushed, probably by a rock. There were signs of a struggle.”

  “Newspapers called her an octoroon,” Officer Lacey said. “That another name for nigger?”

  “No, jackass,” Martin said, barely able to contain his rage, “it means she was of mixed race. An Octoroon means she had one great-grandparent of colored descent.”

  “Now, Martin,” Chief Marshall said, “you know I frown on senior officers verbally berating their inferiors.” Chief Marshall’s eyes were fixed and steely on Martin’s.

  “As I was saying,” Martin said, meeting Chief Marshall’s gaze with his own. “Mary Kate Sledge was killed on Easter Sunday. She was nineteen years old. Two weeks later an unidentified woman was found floating in the Chattahoochee. Coroner hasn’t IDed her yet, but he estimates she was probably around fifteen years old. Her throat was cut and she was disemboweled. In fact, she was pretty badly mutilated.”

  Martin shuddered at what Coroner Pearl had told him, which he’d neglected to put in his official report. The Ripper had not only cut the young woman’s belly open, he’d also pulled her uterus out through her vagina.

  “What’s being done to identify her?” Chief Marshall asked.

  “Three of my men have her description and are canvassing their neighborhoods,” Martin answered. “They’ve been knocking on doors, talking to business leaders, spreading her description around town. So far nobody has stepped forward claiming to know the girl.”

  “How many does this make it so far, Detective?”

  Martin flipped through his notebook. “By my count, this brings the toll to thirteen since January of this year.”

  “What about the murders that happened in 1909?”

  Martin nodded, knowing what the chief was getting at. Half a dozen colored women had been brazenly murdered on city streets since 1909, some shot, others throttled and then beaten about the head. The only connection Martin could see was the victim type. “They were different. Those women were shot or beaten.”

  “They were colored, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the murders happened in the same area? The colored neighborhoods?”

  “Well, yes ...”

  “And wasn’t one of the victims from this year also shot?”

  Martin saw where Chief Marshall was going with this and he let out a long sigh. “That’s what’s been frustrating me about this case. We have Negro women being killed left and right, we have two good eyewitnesses who say the killer is a well-dressed colored man - hell, he stabbed that poor girl just last month and she lived. What was her name?”

  “Lena Sharp’s daughter?” Chief Marshall asked.

  “That’s her. Poor lady went out looking for her mother not knowing the woman was already dead, butchered by that maniac. Then he stabs her. She’s our best eyewitness too.” Martin frowned. Her description of a well-dressed colored man with broad shoulders wearing a black broad-rimmed hat matched every young Negro man in Atlanta. It also matched most of the investigators he’d handpicked out of the colored community to canvass the area and report suspicious activity.

  “Mmm hmmm.” Chief Marshall regarded Martin for a moment and then turned to Officer Lacey. “Six arrests in just under two months, Officer Lacey. That’s some fine work there.”

  Officer Lacey grinned lazily. “Just doin’ my job, sir.”

  Chief Marshall directed his gaze back to Detective Martin. “I should add that we got another grand jury indictment on a suspect.”

  “Nigger’s name is Ben Wise,” Officer Lacey said with a sneer. “And he’s one ugly sucker.”

  “Officer Lacey picked him up last week in a Fourth Ward saloon,” Chief Marshall s
aid. “So far, two witnesses have come forward saying they saw him with one of the victims, a Miss Sadie Holley.”

  “She’s the victim Henry Huff was seen with also,” Martin said, frowning.

  Chief Marshall nodded. “Yes, her and Todd Henderson too.”

  “That whore was just givin’ it up to them darkies, wasn’t she!” Officer Lacey cackled.

  God, I would give a week’s pay to get this man alone for just two minutes, Martin thought, feeling himself get angrier the more he had to listen to Officer Lacey’s drivel. Two minutes, and I will punch his teeth down his throat.

  “I should add that Officer Lacey has been the arresting officer in all three of those cases,” Chief Marshall said.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Martin muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Chief Marshall asked.

  Shit! Martin drew himself up. “It’s just that you’re bragging that he’s arrested three of those suspects for this murder series and none has been convicted by a jury. The other three he arrested the prosecutor didn’t want to file charges. Hell, Todd Henderson was acquitted in his murder trial, and Henry Huff was just found innocent in the murder of Sadie Holley.”

  “And who the hell have you arrested?” Officer Lacey exclaimed. The expression on the younger officer’s face was all bravado and devil-may-care.

  Martin ignored Officer Lacey. “I realize this isn’t a typical murder case. There are multiple victims, and some variations to how they’re killed. What’s not typical are the victims themselves. They’re all colored girls, and I should say most if not all of the women are mulattos or octoroons.”

  “Why you gotta call them that?” Officer Lacey asked. “They’re all niggers, ain’t they?”

  Detective Martin Douglas whirled on Officer Lacey. “If you open your big mouth one more time, I’m gonna smack the living Jesus out of you!”

  “I’ll not have that talk in my office!” Chief Marshall barked. He stood up behind his desk, finally asserting his authority. “Officer Lacey, shut your trap. These murder victims may be coloreds, but we have to solve them lest we get the colored community riled up. They’re already riled up as it is, and if you ask me I think a lot of them are rarin’ to strike back after the 1906 riots.”

  “Like to see them darkies try some shit,” Officer Lacey said. “I’ll hogtie them and feed them to the goddamn alligators.”

  “Officer Lacey,” Chief Marshall said, “if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll feed you to the goddamn gators.”

  Officer Lacey went silent. The tone of Chief Marshall’s voice had deepened. His very presence seemed to darken, become more serious. Chief Marshall glowered at the young officer. “You’re a fine officer, but you can be a goddamn piece of shit, you know that? Now shut the hell up and let me finish my meeting with Detective Douglas.” The chief turned to Martin. “Tell me what you’ve learned from your men on the street.”

  Martin was still recovering from the exchange he’d just witnessed, but he slipped easily back into detective mode. “Well, I’ve got several colored men from the neighborhood getting tips on people. Most of what I’m getting is hearsay. I do have one young man who’s very perceptive. A young barber named Robert Jackson.”

  Officer Lacey frowned at the mention of Robert’s name. Martin made a point to tuck that in the back of his mind before he continued. “Robert’s getting information from several sources that the suspect, or suspects, appear to be men who ... aren’t right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Chief Marshall asked.

  “According to Robert, he’s spoken to at least three, possibly even four potential witnesses. They all claim that shortly before or after the murders of several victims, a man fitting the general description of the suspect Miss Sharpe saw was seen in the general area. Furthermore, they say the man was acting different.” Martin hesitated here for a moment, not sure how to proceed. When he’d met up with Robert last night, he’d understood perfectly well what the young barber was telling him. Martin just found it hard to express it to his superior in a way that would make any kind of sense. “The men in question appeared normal on the surface. They walked casually, appeared normal in every outward appearance. But the way they moved ... all the witnesses told Robert they had the impression that the man they were seeing wasn’t really there. Like something was moving him along. Something was controlling him.”

  “Controlling him?” Chief Marshall said. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know,” Martin said. “Believe me, it’s hard for me to convey what Robert told me in words. But he was adamant that the suspect who was seen wasn’t behaving completely normal. Like they were sleepwalking.”

  “Sleepwalking? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard come out of your head, Detective Douglas,” Officer Lacey said. “You make it sound like he’s a damn golem or something.”

  “A what?” Chief Marshall asked Officer Lacey.

  “A golem,” Martin said, picking up on Officer Lacey’s train of thought. “Jewish myth. It’s a man made of clay that’s powered by a spell. It’s usually used to gain revenge.”

  Chief Marshall frowned. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Martin got a burst of inspiration and seized on it. “It’s kinda like that movie you saw a few years ago you were telling us all about. That Edison film. Frankenstein.”

  “Oh, that,” Chief Marshall said, the connection made. “Okay, I get it.” Chief Marshall was a big movie fan. He and his wife had been attending the main Nickelodeon downtown since it was installed in 1902. He was a big fan of the medium and was a bold enough supporter of it to predict it was going to replace vaudeville. The entire department thought he was damn nuts for even considering the notion.

  “I didn’t see that movie, but I feel like I know the plot,” Martin said. “And from what I remember of it, the villain was a monster, created from spare body parts and was brought to life. The golem is a clay figure brought to life by magic. Well, the closest I can come to describing what Robert relayed to me was that the suspect of these murders appears normal in most aspects, but he moves as if he’s in a daze or under a spell.”

  Chief Marshall frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Under a spell?”

  “The spell of alcohol most likely. You know how them darkies like to drink. They’s almost bad as Injuns.” Officer Lacey added.

  “It is possible our killer may be behaving this way because he’s under the influence of some kind of intoxicant.”

  Martin considered this and nodded. “That’s true. There’s a lot of speakeasies and roadhouses where cocaine and opium are used pretty openly. Maybe the killer is-”

  “This man you’ve been getting this juicy information from, Robert Jackson” - Chief Marshall interrupted, focusing on Martin - “he knows quite a lot of colorful characters, don’t he?”

  “Yes, sir, he does. He’s been very useful to me. The man isn’t afraid to go into most places, in the kind of joints must colored folks don’t want to venture into.”

  “Do you know that Robert is friends with Henry Parker?”

  Martin nodded. “Yes, I do know.”

  The entire department knew about the exploits of Henry Parker. And there were rumors among many of the rank and file about Chief Marshall’s ties to the crime under lord. But now wasn’t the time or the place to broach that subject.

  Chief Marshall turned to Officer Lacey. “I want you to pay close attention to Henry Parker’s activities.”

  “Sure thing, Chief,” Officer Lacey said.

  Martin’s frown deepened. “Why?”

  “You’re a smart man, Detective,” Chief Marshall said. “Surely you know about Mr. Parker’s activities - prostitution, bootlegging, money laundering, opium and cocaine distribution - need I say more?”

  “You think these killings are part of some kind of gang war?”

  “Didn’t say that,” Chief Marshall said. The big man leaned back in his chair, regarding the younger officer and th
e veteran detective. “I just think he ... deserves a closer look.”

  Martin let this settle in his system. He knew that Robert was friendly with the crime figure. He’d heard the two had grown up together, had been fairly close as boys. With age had come a fork in the road, with Robert taking the road traveled by most law-abiding citizens and Henry taking the rocky road down a life of crime. And with that thought, something sparked in Martin’s imagination.

  Could Robert be feeding Henry information?

  “I can see by the expression on your face that you agree with this.” Chief Marshall’s face was pensive, reflective.

  Detective Martin Douglas placed his pen in his left breast pocket and folded his notebook shut. “I agree he needs to be watched,” Martin said. He glanced at Chief Marshall. “But I also think we need to be careful. You know Henry Parker’s reputation.”

  “That I do.” Chief Marshall nodded at Officer Lacey. “Officer Lacey here can handle him, though. Right, Lacey?”

  “You bet, Chief.” Officer Lacey grinned. And that grin told Martin everything he needed to know.

  If what he had long suspected about Chief Marshall being somehow in league with Henry Parker was true, of benefiting in some way from his criminal enterprises, then this made perfect sense. Chief Marshall didn’t give a good goddamn about catching the fiend the newspapers had taken to calling the Atlanta Ripper. No, Chief Marshall wanted Henry Parker for his own reasons.

  He wanted to save his own ass.

  FOURTEEN

  August 4, 2011, Atlanta, Georgia

  Once again Carmen’s research had taken her back to the Atlanta Ripper murders of 1911. The first time she’d dismissed it as inconsequential. Later, it arose again when she was trying to confirm Wayne Williams’s assertion that there had been an unending string of serial murders in Atlanta’s African American community going back more than a century. It had been harder to dismiss then and even harder now after listening to what the old man had to say about Grandma Sable. Somewhere around 1911 is when the killings began. Now, knowing that Grandma Sable had been alive and active at that time, she decided to look at the murders again.