Free The Killings by J.F. Gonzalez, Wrath James White

patrols from the Atlanta Police and recruits from the ranks of the city’s Negro population, Uncle Toms who thought their cooperation with the police would earn them favor. He knew that would never happen. And he knew that those Negroes currently patrolling the streets were not really police officers. They were snitches; spies. They were talking to other people in the community, listening to the rumor mill, and reporting everything to police headquarters. In a way, it was a genius of an idea. No White officer would be able to get the kind of information that could be secured from the Negro population. But another colored man? Especially one who wasn’t dressed like a police officer, wearing plainclothes? That was an entirely different matter. A man like that would blend right in to the community. You wouldn’t know who was a spy or who was just an average man on the street trying to make his way home in the dark after an honest day’s work.
    His lust for blood satiated for now, the killer took a deep breath and stood up. He approached his closet, selected a jacket, and put it on. He inspected himself in the vanity mirror tacked onto his closet door. He looked sharp. All he needed was his hat and he was good to go. He turned to his hat rack, selected a black felt hat, donned it, then checked his pocket for his wallet and keys. His eyes darted to the dresser near the window. His strap and blade were there, lying in plain sight. They could stay there. He wouldn’t need them tonight.
    He had other things to do this evening.
    The killer ventured out into the streets of Atlanta that evening and walked alone, and he walked far. And while he walked he observed and listened and made observations. And he took great delight in listening to people talk about him in fear. It brought a grin to his face.
    A sinister grin that he wore all night.

TEN
    July 31, 2011, Duluth, Georgia
    Carmen Mendoza set her research materials aside and leaned back in her chair. She’d been at it for two hours, ever since returning home from work. She’d been doing a lot of research at her quiet apartment in Duluth every chance she got. She’d also spent a lot of time at the public library downtown, which was where she’d acquired the research material that was spread out before her now. She regarded the photocopies, her notes, with a sense of dread and puzzlement. The more she delved into this case the darker it was becoming.
    Most of what she found in the public record was of no help to her whatsoever. She’d visited Wayne Williams again on July 24 and learned the location of the old woman’s former residence. Wayne couldn’t remember the address but he remembered the street, what the house looked like, and its general location. Carmen had driven down to the area and found the house in question. It was a rundown place, sitting on a small lot with a weed-infested yard. The house looked like it had been there for more than a hundred years. The neighborhood was rundown, but it was vibrant and alive, with kids playing outside, older teenagers lounging around on front porches, young mothers talking to each other over backyard fences as they watched each other’s kids.
    Carmen took a few photos of the house and drove away, mindful of the attention she’d gotten from a few of the people in the neighborhood. They probably think I’m a cop, she thought as she drove away.
    On her next visit with Wayne on July 28, just two days ago, she showed him the pictures. “Is that the house?”
    He nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.” He looked at the photos hesitantly, as if he was reliving something that was better left in dark corners, tucked away, never to be seen. “Hasn’t changed much. Anybody live there now?”
    “I don’t know,” Carmen said, putting the photos back in her bag. And then she changed the subject and steered the conversation back to when Wayne first heard that Grandma Sable had passed on.
    She’d spent the last two days compiling the notes