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  The boy told authorities that three men fondled Clifford, that he was crying when they removed his clothes, said, “They mess with the boy’s behind, chest and legs,” and one of them “got him in the butt.” He went on to say that the boy was hollering really loud, saying he wanted to go home, but one of the men had a yellow rope tied around Clifford’s neck, which he eventually strangled him with—a detail that matches the facts. Clifford Jones was one of the few victims on the list known to have been strangled with a rope. The witness then said the men washed the body with soap and a rag, and reclothed it.

  Though all the details fit, the witness’s statement was disregarded because police said the nineteen-year-old boy was retarded and would say whatever he thought they wanted him to.

  When Brooks was questioned, he told police that the boy came in around 4:30 p.m. asking for a job picking up trash and sweeping, and said he stayed until about 8:30 p.m.

  And that was it. He wasn’t questioned further—not about Clifford or any other victims on or off the list.

  Jamie Brooks would eventually be sentenced on other charges in March of 1981, the same month when the last child under seventeen would disappear during the height of the murders. He was charged with aggravated assault with intent to rape and aggravated sodomy, and would serve ten months in the Fulton County Jail and be released during the Williams trial.

  Perhaps most interesting of all as it relates to the list and the case against Wayne Williams is that Clifford Jones’s murder was attributed to Williams following the trial—based on matching fiber evidence. Why, if the green trilobal fibers used to connect Williams to the victims and convict him for their murders are so unique, were they found on a victim that he almost certainly didn’t kill?

  “Maybe like Jamie Brooks he went to prison on different charges. Maybe he moved. Or died.”

  He started to say something, but Camille walked in.

  She was a mid-thirties African-American woman with light skin and very tired eyes. Her hair had been straightened, and it, her makeup, and clothes were stylish—or would have been a few years back.

  She collapsed in one of the two free chairs around the dining table and sighed heavily.

  Kenny ran over and hugged her, but Wilbur didn’t even look up.

  After hearing about Kenny’s day and speaking to Wilbur and getting a grunt in return, Kenny rejoined Wilbur and she returned her attention to us.

  “Camille, this is John Jordan, the guy I was telling you about. John, this is Camille.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “How’d it go?” Mickey asked.

  She shook her head, the long side of her asymmetrical bob waving back and forth. “Too old. Too qualified. Too late. Too bad.”

  “You’ll find something,” he said. “Just a matter of time.”

  “What’re y’all doing?”

  He told her.

  “Do you remember Cedric?” I asked.

  The question seemed to bother her, and she glanced over her shoulder at her boys. “Don’t like talkin’ about it. So close to . . . He played with Wilbur. Good, sweet kid. The kind that people looked out for ’cause his mama didn’t. But I don’t even like talkin’ about it. Scares me to think . . .”

  She turned and looked at Kenny and Wilbur again.

  “Did you ever see his dad around?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I really don’t want to talk about it. And I’d rather y’all not work on that stuff around me and my boys.”

  “Okay, baby,” Mickey said. “I understand. I won’t do it again.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at me. “I’m not trying to be . . . It’s just upsetting. I just can’t . . .”

  I nodded. “I get it. It’s not a problem.”

  “You should talk to Miss Annie Mae Dozier. We all looked after him, but she near raised him. She moved shortly after he disappeared. Broke her heart. But I don’t think she went far. I’ve got her new address ’round here somewhere. Always send her a Christmas card.”

  18

  You killed a cop,” Bobby Battle said.

  “I didn’t,” I said. “He killed himself.”

  He was referring to Larry Moore, Ida’s son-in-law, Jordan’s husband, and one of his brothers in blue who killed himself a month back. It happened at Ida’s house. I was there at the time.

  “Ida was there,” I added. “Her statement corroborated mine.”

  “Corroborated,” he said. “That’s just how criminals talk. She’s covering for you.”

  “DA doesn’t see it that way.”

  “Well, that’s the way me and every other cop in this town see it. And don’t even get me started on a dead kid being found in your room.”

  We were at a truck stop off I-85 north of Atlanta, because he didn’t want to be seen with me.

  As usual, he was dressed like a slick TV detective, but his white cotton Miami Vice suit and purple silk T-shirt looked out of place in Atlanta in November.

  He held up a file folder.

  “I’m doin’ this as a favor for Frank. ’Cause I owe him. But I’m also doin’ it because of what this is for a guy like you.”

  I didn’t say anything and he looked disappointed.

  “This is rope for a guy like you,” he said, flapping the folder in the wind. “I give you enough of it and you’ll hang yourself.”

  All around us, semi-trailers and tractors pulled in, parked, refueled, pulled out. The side lot where we were was full of them.

  We were standing between our two cars even though it was a cold, damp day. It was loud and hard to hear, and I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  He handed me the folder.

  “Copies of the four missing kids cases Frank asked for—and one he didn’t because it matches.”

  “Thanks,” I said, opening the folder and glancing through its contents.

  It was thin—a few missing persons reports, a few notes from the cops involved. Not much else.

  “And before you say anything, that’s all there was. I copied everything.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Frank is welcome.”

  I nodded.

  “I know you didn’t ask what I think, but—”

  “I was just about to,” I said.

  “Their dads took them, not so as we could prove, but that’s what happened. And I’ll tell you why the fine detectives who investigated these cases didn’t do anything other than what they did.”

  I waited but he didn’t say anything. Guessing he was waiting for me to ask, I said, “Why’s that?”

  “Because of how shitty their mothers were. Gotta figure kids would be no worse off with their sperm donors. Hell, may even be better off.”

  “Do you know if any of the missing boys ever called their moms to let them know they were okay?”

  He shook his head. “Never heard anything like that.”

  “You mind if I ask the detectives who worked the cases?”

  “Hell yes, I mind. Don’t even think about talking to anyone else. Not that they’d talk to you, but . . . I better not hear of you talkin’ to another cop.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Make sure you don’t. I’ll ask around about it, let you know if I hear of anything like that—so don’t you. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know. I appreciate this. I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to.”

  “We both know that ain’t true. I don’t want you doin’ any of this.”

  19

  Do you remember any of Cedric’s friends?” I asked.

  I had stopped by Lonnie’s to rent a movie on my way home. I was looking in Drama when it occurred to me to ask him.

  He shrugged. “Not sure I knew any even back then. Why?”

  “Recognize any of these names? Jamal Jackson, Quentin Washington, Jaquez Anderson, Duke Ellis, or Vaughn Smith.”

  I didn’t have the file with
me, but I had studied it in the truck stop parking lot and knew the names by heart.

  He thought about it.

  All five boys were between the ages of ten and fourteen when they vanished during the height of the Atlanta Child Murders. None of them were ever seen again—dead or alive. All of them had lived with a single mom with suspect parenting skills.

  “A few sound sort of familiar, but . . .”

  I nodded and kept looking.

  In the mood for something light and romantic, I was already carrying the boxes for Sixteen Candles and The Man from Snowy River around with me.

  “Were they Cedric’s friends?” Lonnie said. “Could they know something to help us find him? Can I talk to them? I’ll close the shop and we can go right now.”

  “Just looking for connections between them and Cedric.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They disappeared during the same time period and in the same manner he did.”

  “Oh. Any of them ever found?”

  I frowned and shook my head.

  “Found any connections between them?”

  “Just started looking,” I said. “Just got their names and the police reports.”

  “How can I help?”

  Settling on the two selections I had already made, I made my way up toward the counter where Lonnie stood.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said.

  “I’ll do anything,” he said. “I’d give anything to get him back. I just can’t fathom what happened to him. And the thought of Wayne Williams or someone like him gettin’ hold of that sweet boy . . . Makes me want to drink like nothin’ else ever has.”

  “What can you tell me about Cedric’s dad?”

  “Cedric Sr. ain’t a bad guy. Immature. Self-centered. Didn’t know nothin’ about being a daddy—never had one his self.”

  “Could he have taken Cedric?”

  He shook his head. “Wouldn’t want him. Wouldn’t know what to do with him. And . . . He’s the first place I looked back then. He was shocked Cedric was gone. I believed him when he said he didn’t have him or have any idea where he was, but I still watched him for a week or so just to make sure. Followed him everywhere he went for a while. Broke into his house and looked around when he was at work. Found nothin’. He didn’t take him, doesn’t have him. I wish he did.”

  I nodded.

  “You or the group want to talk to him anyway, I can set it up or even go with you if you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I appreciate what y’all are doing. Cops don’t care. Nobody else is looking. I’ll do anything I can to help. Just let me know what that is.”

  I sat my two selections on the counter, and he went about finding them.

  “This a little light for you, ain’t it?” he said.

  “Need a little light in my life,” I said.

  “Come to another meeting with me.”

  “I will. I promise. It helped.”

  He handed me my two movies without writing them down or having me sign anything. “On the house,” he said. “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you, Lonnie. I appreciate that.”

  “Just find my boy,” he said, and it occurred to me that he was the closest thing to a father Cedric ever had, and Cedric was the closest thing to a son he ever had.

  20

  I stopped in Scarlett’s to talk to Susan.

  It was the first time I had ever entered the establishment with no intention of drinking.

  I sat at a table in the far corner and waited.

  “What can I get you?” Susan said.

  “Just a little conversation.”

  “No, seriously. Margaret said I had to serve you.”

  “Just came in to talk to you,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  She sat down across from me, placing her tray on the table next to the unlit candle between us.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “Why aren’t you drinking?”

  “I’m not not drinking,” I said. “I’m just not drinking right now. I’m working on something.”

  “Cedric?”

  I nodded.

  It was late afternoon and Scarlett’s was mostly empty. Two middle-aged men at opposite ends of the bar were staring into their drinks. Margaret, seated on a stool behind the bar, was having a moment with a drink of her own.

  “That makes two of you,” she said. “Cedric’s death made you and Lonnie stop drinking.”

  My abstinence was temporary and it was because of the case, but I didn’t mention it.

  “Why do you say death instead of disappearance?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “No reason. Nothing sinister. Just a feeling. I mean, I’m not a psychic like your girlfriend, but I get feelings too.”

  “How about facts?” I asked. “Got any of those or just feelings?”

  “Whatta you mean?”

  “You kept him. See anything? Hear anything? Anything that might help us find him?”

  “Yeah, and I’ve been sitting on it all this time just waiting for someone to ask me in just the right way.”

  “Nothing that seemed fine at the time but later made you rethink it?”

  “Nothing. He seemed like a good, happy kid. I didn’t keep him all that much. His mom was a drunk. I don’t know how bad she was to him. Think she was mostly just not there—even when she was. His uncle made sure he was taken care of. He’s the one who paid me, not the mom. He’s the one who made sure Cedric ate and got to school. But lots of people looked out for him.”

  “Like Annie Mae Dozier?”

  “Her especially, but there were others.”

  We were quiet a moment, and I looked back over at the three lost souls at the bar.

  “Do I look that sad when I’m drinking?” I asked.

  “When you’re drinking. When you’re not.”

  I shook my head and forced a smile.

  “What about friends his age?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Cedric,” I said. “What about friends?”

  “He didn’t have a lot. Played with a few kids from the apartment complex but just because they were there. Not like his mom was going to take him anywhere—no school activities, no birthday parties, nothing like that.”

  “Recognize any of these names?” I said. “Jamal Jackson, Quentin Washington, Jaquez Anderson, Duke Ellis, or Vaughn Smith.”

  “Jamal lived in the building. They played together some. Why?”

  “What happened to Jamal?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “He and his mom moved. Have no idea after that. Why?”

  “Did you have a boyfriend during that time?”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Where were you the night Cedric disappeared?”

  “You suspect me?” she asked, her voice equal parts anger and pain.

  “No,” I said, and it was only partially untrue.

  “Then why ask?”

  “Were you with Ronald Nolan?”

  “The pizza guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “He said he was with a woman out back that night. Said she wasn’t single, so . . .”

  “You thought of me ’cause I’m such a whore?”

  “No. It’s a compliment. You’re the prettiest, most desirable young woman I could come up with.”

  “Oh,” she said, seeming placated for the moment. “It wasn’t me,” she said.

  “It was an innocent question,” I said. “Nothing behind it.”

  “Oh shit,” she said, her eyes widening as if something had just occurred to her.

  “What is it?”

  “What if it wasn’t a young woman but an older one?”

  “Which?”

  “The Mitchell of the Margaret and Mitchell part
nership. I always suspected Laney of stepping out on Aunt Margaret. She had been with men before. Was mostly with men until she and Aunt Margaret got together. Always thought she was more bi than . . . bet she and ol’ pizza boy were scratching itches they both had.”

  “It would explain why he couldn’t reveal who it was,” I said. “Why he still can’t.”

  She nodded.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Anytime.”

  “How did Laney die?” I asked. “I’ve never heard anyone say.”

  “That’s ’cause we’re forbidden from discussing it.”

  “By whom?”

  “Whom do you think?” she said with a wry smile and a glance over at Margaret.

  I waited.

  She didn’t add anything else.

  “You gonna tell me?”

  “Tragic accident,” she said. “A very—”

  “What’s with all the whispering, you two?” Margaret said from behind the bar.

  Susan popped up, grabbed her tray, and got back to work.

  “I wasn’t sayin’ stop,” Margaret said. “I just want in on it.”

  21

  On my way home, I stopped in Peachtree Pizza to pick up the pie I had ordered from Scarlett’s fifteen minutes before.

  It was ready and waiting—just like Rand Nola’s smile.

  When the customer before me left and we were alone, I said, “Got a name for you.”

  “Like my native name or something?” he said with an even bigger smile.

  “Laney Mitchell.”

  His smile faded, then vanished the way Cedric and the other boys had.

  “That’s why you couldn’t say then or now,” I said.

  He nodded. “How’d you . . .”

  “With a little help from Susan.”

  “She knows?”

  “She suspected.”

  “She’s not going to say anything to Margaret, is she? It’d just upset her for no good reason.”

  “She’s not. No one is.”

  “Laney loved Margaret. I mean big time. They were like the perfect couple. Lane just missed dick sometimes. That’s all it was. Just sex.”

  Nothing is ever just sex, but I knew what he meant.