CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The café smelled of fresh coffee and warm pastry, a welcome contrast to the scent of burned film and death that still clung to Riley’s nostrils.
She wrapped her hands around a steaming mug, drawing what comfort she could from its warmth.
Across the laminate table, Ann Marie scrolled through her phone, hunting for connections between two films made decades ago.
The breakfast crowd was sparse—a few early risers and night-shift workers heading home, allowing them a bubble of quiet in which to talk.
“You should eat something,” Ann Marie said without looking up from her phone, her free hand gesturing toward Riley’s untouched plate of scrambled eggs and toast.
Riley nodded absently, forcing herself to take a bite. Food was fuel, necessary even when appetite fled in the face of horror. The eggs were rubbery, the toast slightly burnt, but she chewed mechanically, knowing she needed the sustenance.
“Any luck finding connections between the films?” she asked. “Other than both featured scenes that our killer has recreated with meticulous attention to detail?”
Ann Marie’s brow furrowed in concentration.
“I’m piecing it together, digging through a film history database, trying to find the common threads.
The Night Walker was released in 1954, directed by Weston Black, famous for his film noir movies.
The Broken Window came out three years later, in 1957, directed by someone named Chip Raines.
” She scrolled further, her thumb flicking rapidly across the screen.
“Both films were produced by the same studio—Herald Cry Productions.”
Riley watched her partner work, appreciating Ann Marie’s methodical approach. The younger agent had developed a reputation at the Academy for her research skills.
The waitress appeared beside their table, coffee pot in hand. “Refill?” she asked, her voice carrying the weariness of an overnight shift nearing its end.
Riley nodded gratefully, watching as the dark liquid streamed into her mug.
Riley finished her eggs, pushing the plate aside. “So we have two films, made by the same studio, both containing murder scenes that have now been recreated in real life.”
“And both were made during a period when Hollywood was being torn apart by the HUAC hearings,” Ann Marie added. “Careers destroyed, friendships betrayed, lives ruined by testimony like Roberta’s.”
“We need to know exactly who was involved in both productions.”
Ann Marie nodded, continuing her digital search. “I’m looking for cast and crew lists now. Here’s The Night Walker. Director: Weston Black. Cinematographer: Craig Belt. Art Director: Lucas Simpson. Music by Willis O’Neill. Starring Charles Darrow, Roberta Rimes, Cleo Anderson, and Theodore Kent.”
She swiped to a different page. “And for The Broken Window: Director: Chip Raines. Cinematographer: Craig Belt again. Same Art Director, Lucas Simpson. Music by Willis O’Neill again. Starring Charles Darrow, Cleo Anderson, and Theodore Kent again.”
“But not Roberta Rimes,” Riley observed.
"No. She testified to HUAC in 1955, right after The Night Walker made her famous, but before The Broken Window was produced. She wasn’t cast in The Broken Window, and it doesn’t look like she ever worked with its director, Chip Raines.”
“So the films had different directors, but largely the same stars and production staff,” Riley observed.
“That wasn’t uncommon during the studio system era,” Ann Marie said. “Studios had people under contract. They would use the same personnel across multiple productions.”
Riley sighed. “The trouble is, all that overlap doesn’t help us narrow things down.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the buzzing of Riley’s phone. Detective Hayes’ name flashed on the screen. Riley answered, putting it on speaker so Ann Marie could hear.
“Paige? Esmer? We’re all set up at headquarters,” Hayes said, with what sounded like reluctant acceptance. “Hartley and his lawyer, Marcus Ewing, are waiting in the interrogation room. Ewing’s making noise about cutting some kind of deal.”
“We’re on our way,” Riley replied. “Ten minutes, tops.”
“Make it five if you can,” Hayes said before disconnecting.
Riley tossed some bills on the table, enough to cover their meal and a generous tip. “Let’s go. I want to see what Hartley knows about these films and Roberta’s testimony.”
As they hurried to the car, Ann Marie continued scrolling through her phone.
“There’s something else,” she said as Riley pulled away from the curb.
“According to this article, The Broken Window’s most notorious scene—the murder in the projection booth—was considered unusually violent for its time.
Some critics speculated it reflected the director’s personal bitterness about something. ”
“Or someone,” Riley added, accelerating through a yellow light.
The Atlanta Police Headquarters loomed ahead, its modern glass facade reflecting the morning sunlight.
Riley parked in a space marked for official visitors, and they hurried inside, badges ready.
The desk sergeant recognized them immediately, directing them to the interrogation room without the usual visitor protocols.
They found Hayes waiting outside the door, his posture tense, shoulders hunched. “Ewing’s demanding a deal before Hartley answers any questions about the murders,” he said by way of greeting. “Says his client will plead to the extortion charges in exchange for our recommendation for leniency.”
“And you’re considering it?” Ann Marie asked, sounding surprised.
Hayes ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw.
“The way I see it, I don’t have much choice.
Two murders in as many days, both staged like scenes from old movies.
And there could be more if we don’t move quickly.
” He looked directly at Riley. “You were right about the HUAC connection. If Hartley has information that could help us prevent another death, I’m willing to push for reduced charges on the extortion. ”
Riley nodded, recognizing the professional cost this concession represented for Hayes. “Let’s hear what he has to say before committing to anything formal.”
Hayes pushed open the door into the interrogation room.
Hartley sat at the bolted-down table, his scholarly appearance somewhat diminished by the standard-issue orange jumpsuit.
Marcus sat beside him with the confident ease of an expensive defense attorney, his tailored suit and precisely knotted tie forming a stark contrast to his client’s institutional attire.
“Agent Paige, Agent Esmer,” Ewing greeted them with professional cordiality as they entered. “I understand you have questions for my client regarding matters unrelated to the charges currently pending against him.”
“That’s right,” Riley confirmed, taking a seat across from Hartley. Ann Marie settled beside her, pulling out a notebook. “In addition to the murder of Veronica Slate, we’re also investigating the murder of Crystal Keene late last night.”
Ewing chuckled. “Well, we can be sure he didn’t kill Crystal Keene. He was in his cell at the time.”
“That’s correct,” Hayes put in. “But we’ve got him cold on the extortion charges. And that’s where the deal comes into play.”
Ewing folded his hands on the table. “Before we proceed, I want to be clear about the terms. My client possesses information that may be relevant to your investigation. In exchange for this cooperation, we expect consideration regarding the severity of charges related to his other activities.”
Hayes leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We can recommend leniency to the prosecutor, but I can’t make binding promises.”
“That’s not good enough,” Ewing countered smoothly. “We need written assurance that the extortion charges will be reduced to a lesser offense, with a sentencing recommendation of no more than five years.”
Riley watched Malcolm Hartley throughout this exchange. The man’s eyes, magnified slightly by his wire-rimmed glasses, darted between the speakers with an intensity that suggested more than mere self-interest. There was an eagerness there, perhaps a desire to share what he knew.
“Mr. Hartley,” she said, ignoring Ewing’s attempted interjection, “two women are dead. Murdered in ways that deliberately echo scenes from old films. I believe there will be more victims if we don’t stop this killer quickly.”
Hartley leaned forward, his restraints clinking against the table edge. “You think it’s connected to Roberta Rimes HUAC testimony, don’t you?” His voice carried the excited cadence of a researcher whose obscure subject has suddenly become relevant.
“Malcolm,” Ewing warned, placing a restraining hand on his client’s arm. “Don’t say anything more until we have an agreement.”
Hayes pushed away from the wall, his patience visibly thinning.
“Fine. I’ll put in writing that we’ll recommend charges be reduced to a single count of wire fraud, with a sentencing recommendation of five years.
But that’s contingent on the information your client provides actually helping us solve these murders. ”
Ewing considered this for a moment, then nodded sharply. “Acceptable. I’ll need that in writing before we leave this room.”
“I’ll have it drafted immediately,” Hayes agreed, gesturing to an officer standing by the door who nodded and left the room.
Riley returned her attention to Hartley. “Who did Roberta Rimes name in her testimony before HUAC in 1955?”
Malcolm’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses, his posture straightening as if he were about to deliver a long-awaited lecture.
“She named ten people, all film industry professionals suspected of Communist sympathies or activities.” He recited the names as if he’d memorized them long ago.
“Weston Black, director. Eleanor Caldwell, screenwriter. Franz Lazlo, cinematographer. Samuel Fremont, art director. Daniel Greenberg, producer. Edwin Hollister, composer. Patricia Keller, actress. Benjamin Rosen, writer. Harold Steinman, director. George Weiss, producer.”
Riley noticed that Hartley had recited them alphabetically, suggesting he’d studied this list extensively.
“Weston Black,” Ann Marie repeated, looking up from her notes. “He directed The Night Walker, the film where Roberta played the poisoned nightclub singer.”
Hartley nodded eagerly. “Yes. That film was released just before Roberta testified. After she named him to the committee, Black was blacklisted. His career was effectively over.”
“And the others?” Riley pressed. “What became of them?”
“Various fates,” Hartley replied, the words tumbling out faster now, as if he’d been waiting years for someone to ask these questions.
“Some left the country. Some worked under pseudonyms. Some never worked in film again. A few committed suicide.” His voice took on a bitter edge.
“But Roberta Rimes went on to become an even bigger star, carefully cultivating her image as America’s sweetheart. ”
Hartley leaned back in the chair, his eyes bright with the satisfaction of sharing his expertise.
“If you want to know more, you should talk to Lucy Morgan at The Atlanta Chronicle. She’s the arts and culture editor.
About ten years ago, she wrote a series of feature articles called ‘Bad Blood Reckoning’ that exposed a lot of this history.
She helped me obtain Roberta’s testimony list for my research. ”
“Lucy Morgan,” Riley repeated, committing the name to memory.
Hartley nodded. “She might know more about who else might have had a grudge against Roberta—and by extension, Veronica.”
Ewing cleared his throat pointedly. “I believe my client has provided sufficient information to fulfill his part of our agreement.” He nodded toward Hayes. “Once we have the written assurance of reduced charges, we’ll be happy to continue this conversation at a later date.”
Hayes straightened from his position against the wall. “The officer should be back with the paperwork shortly. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime, my client has nothing further to say,” Ewing interrupted firmly.
Riley studied Malcolm Hartley’s face, sensing he wanted to say more despite his lawyer’s instructions.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Hartley,” she said, rising from her chair. “We’ll be in touch if we have further questions.”
Hayes gestured for Riley and Ann Marie to follow him out of the interrogation room. They crossed paths with the officer returning with the plea agreement. Hayes signed it, and the officer continued on his way to the interrogation room to deliver it to Hartley and his attorney.
“Do you think he’s given us anything useful?” Hayes asked. “Should we go back and drill him right now?”
“I think that list of names could be important,” Riley replied. “If we get started on those, we might spot something else to ask Hartley about.”
“So we’re looking for someone with a connection to these blacklisted film professionals?” Hayes asked. “After seventy years?”
“Or their descendants,” Riley added. “Someone carrying a grudge through generations.”
As they entered Hayes’ office, Riley’s mind was working in high gear. Two murders, decades of hidden history, and a killer whose next move remained obscured behind the flickering images of old films and buried grudges. Where did they go from here?