CHAPTER NINETEEN
Detective Hayes pushed open his office door, revealing a space that reflected the life of a busy lawman.
Coffee cups clustered on one corner of the desk, case files spread across the surface, a jacket hung haphazardly over the back of a chair.
Riley settled into an empty chair, her mind still processing Malcolm Hartley’s alphabetized list of victims—ten names that had been buried for decades, now exhumed by murder.
Ann Marie remained standing, arms crossed, as she surveyed the cramped office with its institutional furniture and walls adorned with department commendations and a Georgia Bulldogs pennant.
Hayes circled his desk and dropped heavily into his own chair, the springs protesting beneath his weight. “So we have ten names,” he said, reaching for a legal pad. “Ten people that Roberta Rimes named to HUAC. And we think our killer is connected to one of them.”
Riley nodded. “We should prioritize the people directly involved in making both The Night Walker and The Broken Window. Weston Black directed the first one, but not the second.”
Before Hayes could respond, his desk phone rang. He snatched it up with an abrupt “Hayes.” His expression shifted as he listened, eyes narrowing with interest. “Send it over right now. I’ve got Agents Paige and Esmer with me.”
He hung up and turned to his computer. “That was Officer Simmons. He’s been checking surveillance footage from businesses near The Velvet Screen.
There’s a convenience store across the street with an exterior camera that caught someone entering the alley beside the theater last night, around 6:30 PM. ”
Riley and Ann Marie moved to stand behind Hayes’ desk, flanking him as he pulled up the email. A new message appeared at the top of his inbox with a video attachment. Hayes double-clicked, and the grainy black-and-white footage filled the screen.
The time stamp in the corner read 6:28 PM. The camera angle showed the sidewalk and part of the alley beside The Velvet Screen. At first, only empty pavement appeared in the frame. Then a figure entered from the bottom of the screen, walking toward the alley.
“There,” Hayes said, pointing unnecessarily.
The figure moved with caution, glancing around before slipping into the alley. The quality was poor and grainy, revealing little more than a murky silhouette.
“Can we enhance this?” Ann Marie asked.
Hayes shook his head. “This is as good as it gets. Convenience store camera, probably hasn’t been upgraded in a decade.”
Riley leaned closer, studying the indistinct shape. “Medium height, athletic build. Can’t tell if it’s a man or woman.” She pointed to the way the figure moved. “See how they check for witnesses before entering the alley? And that deliberate pace? They knew exactly where they were going.”
Hayes nodded. “No fumbling, no hesitation.”
The camera caught the figure reaching the theater’s side door, one that was not used for deliveries, not public access.
There was a pause as they person worked on the lock—bent slightly forward, hands moving in skillful motions.
After perhaps thirty seconds, the door swung open, and the figure slipped inside.
The entire process was clinical, efficient.
“Just as you suggested, Riley,” Ann Marie said. “The killer picked the lock. No forced entry, no broken glass. Professional.”
Hayes closed the video with a click. “So our killer has skills beyond film knowledge. Lock-picking, garrote use—these aren’t casual hobbies.”
“We need to identify the connection between the victims and the films,” Riley said, straightening.
“Ann Marie, now that Malcolm has given us that list of people that Roberta Rimes named, can you look them up? See what you can find about their careers, especially around the time of the HUAC hearings.”
“Here, use my computer.” Hayes stood up and vacated his chair to allow Ann Marie access.
“On it," she said, slipping into his chair, her fingers already flying across the keyboard. “This isn’t complicated. They’ll probably all be in Wikipedia. I’ll start with Weston Black, since we know he directed The Night Walker.”
While Ann Marie worked, Riley returned to her chair.
She gazed out the office window, staring out at downtown Atlanta without really seeing it.
Her thoughts drifted briefly to April—to whether Bill had managed to find anything more about Leo Dillard’s whereabouts.
She checked her phone but found no missed calls or messages.
The silence was both reassuring and disquieting.
She forced her attention back to the present case, compartmentalizing her worry as she’d learned to do over years of balancing motherhood with her FBI work.
“Here we go,” Ann Marie announced quickly. “Weston Black, born Jacob Weisman in 1904. Jewish immigrant who came to America as a child. Started as a cinematographer in the 1930s, became a director in the 1940s. Specialized in film noir.”
Hayes had begun pacing his small office. “What happened to him after HUAC?”
Ann Marie scrolled down the Wikipedia page. “He was blacklisted in 1955, immediately after the release of The Night Walker. It was the film made Roberta Rimes a star—she had a small but memorable role as a singer who’s poisoned in a nightclub.”
“The same death scene that was recreated for Veronica Slate’s murder,” Riley noted.
“Wait,” Ann Marie said suddenly, her voice rising with excitement. “This is interesting. According to this article, after he was blacklisted, Black managed to direct two more films under the pseudonym ‘Chip Raines.’“
Riley froze, recognizing the name. “Chip Raines?”
“Yes. The two films were—” Ann Marie’s eyes widened as she read the titles. “The Broken Window in 1957 and Shadows at Dusk in 1958.”
“So was Chip Raines actually Weston Black?” Riley said. “The same man who directed The Night Walker also directed The Broken Window? The film that our killer recreated for Crystal Keene’s murder?”
“Yes,” Ann Marie confirmed, her expression mirroring Riley’s shock.
Hayes stopped his pacing. “So both murder scenes were from films directed by the same person?”
“The same person directing under different names,” Riley said. “That can’t be a coincidence. Weston Black is our connection, under any of his names.”
Ann Marie continued reading, her brow furrowing. “It says his pseudonym was exposed by gossip columnist Myrtle Carroway in late 1958. After that, he couldn’t get work under any name. He died in poverty in 1965, completely forgotten by the industry that once celebrated him.”
“So Roberta names him to HUAC,” Riley said, “ending his legitimate career. He tries to continue working under a pseudonym, but Myrtle Carroway exposes him, ending even that avenue of escape.”
“A double betrayal,” Hayes murmured. “First by Roberta, then by this Carroway woman.”
“Malcolm mentioned that we should talk to Lucy Morgan,” Riley recalled. “He said she wrote articles about this period called ‘Bad Blood Reckoning.’ Can we find those online?”
Hayes nodded. “The Atlanta Chronicle has a digital archive. I have a subscription.” He leaned over Ann Marie to access a different browser tab, quickly navigating to the newspaper’s website. After logging in, he searched for “Lucy Morgan Bad Blood Reckoning.”
The search returned a series of articles from ten years earlier. Hayes clicked on the first one, titled “The Poison Pen: How Myrtle Carroway Destroyed Lives During the Red Scare.”
“This is definitely it,” Ann Marie said as they skimmed the lengthy article. “Lucy Morgan writes about how Carroway used her gossip column to support the blacklist, specifically targeting those who tried to work around it.”
Riley read aloud from the screen: “‘Perhaps Carroway’s most devastating revelation came when she exposed director Weston Black’s attempt to continue working under the pseudonym Chip Raines.
Her column detailed how Black—whose real name was Jacob Weisman—had directed The Broken Window and Shadows at Dusk using the fake identity.
Studio executives, fearful of being associated with a blacklisted director, immediately severed all ties with him. Black never directed again.’“
Hayes scrolled down further, reaching the author’s bio at the end of the article. "Lucy Morgan is the Arts and Culture Editor for The Atlanta Chronicle. Her interest in the McCarthy era stems in part from a family connection—she is the great-great-great granddaughter of Myrtle Carroway."
The office fell silent as the three of them absorbed this revelation.
“Lucy Morgan is Myrtle Carroway’s descendant,” Riley said slowly. “And she wrote articles exposing her ancestor’s role in destroying Weston Black’s career.”
“That puts her in our killer’s crosshairs,” Hayes said grimly. “If they’re targeting people connected to Roberta Rimes and Myrtle Carroway—the two women who effectively ended Weston Black’s career...”
“We need to contact her immediately,” Riley insisted. “She could be in danger.”
Hayes was already reaching for his phone. He dialed quickly, putting the call on speaker. After three rings, a woman’s voice answered.
“Atlanta Chronicle, Arts and Culture department.”
“This is Detective Marcus Hayes with Atlanta PD. I need to speak with Lucy Morgan urgently.”
A pause. “I’m sorry, Detective. Lucy isn’t in yet.”
Hayes frowned at the phone. “What time does she usually arrive?”
“Seven sharp, every morning,” the woman replied, a note of concern entering her voice. “She’s always the first one here. That’s why it’s strange—she hasn’t called, and she’s not answering her cell or home phone. It’s not like her at all to be late without letting someone know.”
Riley felt a cold knot form in her stomach. She glanced at her watch: 9:17 AM.
“Has anyone gone to check on her?” Hayes asked.
“Our managing editor called her super to check her apartment about twenty minutes ago. No one answered the door. But her car was still parked in the apartment building’s garage.”
“Thank you,” Hayes said. “Please have her call this number immediately if she shows up or makes contact.” He provided his direct line before ending the call.
The three of them exchanged grim looks. A theatrical killer was working through a list, recreating scenes from films directed by a man whose career and life had been destroyed.
“Lucy Morgan isn’t just late for work,” Riley said. “She’s the next victim.”
***
Pain erupted behind Lucy Morgan’s eyelids as consciousness returned in cruel waves.
The throbbing at her temple sent fresh agony through her skull.
She tried to lift her hand to the wound, but her arms refused to obey.
She realized they were bound behind her back, a coarse rope biting into her wrists.
Lucy’s eyes flew open, seeking light, finding none. She tried to call out, but something filled her mouth—fabric, wedged between her teeth and secured behind her head, reducing her voice to muffled vibrations in her throat. Panic fluttered against her ribs.
Where am I?
The air around her felt vast, empty. Her labored breathing echoed slightly, suggesting high ceilings, wide spaces.
A chill seeped through her jogging clothes, the dampness of the floor bleeding through her thin leggings.
The scent of dust filled her nostrils, mixed with the metallic tang of her own blood.
Lucy strained against her bonds, testing their strength.
The rope held firm, expertly tied. Her ankles were similarly secured, allowing only inches of movement.
She rolled to her side, the motion sending fresh pain lancing through her head.
As she shifted, a draft whispered across her face—cold air flowing from somewhere above or beyond, carrying the promise of a world outside this prison.
How did I get here?
Memory returned in jagged fragments. Her morning ritual—lacing up her running shoes in the pre-dawn darkness of her apartment.
The familiar weight of her house key tucked into the small pocket of her leggings.
Stretching her calves against the bottom step of her building.
The empty streets, still sleeping as she began her daily five AM run.
Then, there had been that movement in her peripheral vision. Something wrong. A figure lunging from behind the tall hedge bordering the park. The shocking impact. Darkness descending.
The sudden creak of hinges split through Lucy’s thoughts.
A door opened somewhere to her right, flooding the space with harsh light that stabbed at her eyes after so long in darkness.
She squinted against the glare, catching only the silhouette of a figure before the door swung shut again, plunging the room back into impenetrable blackness.
Footsteps approached—measured, unhurried. Lucy’s heart hammered against her ribs. She twisted on the floor, instinct driving her to escape despite the futility of the attempt. A desperate sound tore from her throat, the gag reducing her scream to a guttural groan that echoed in the empty space.
The footsteps stopped. Somewhere in the darkness, her captor stood, invisible yet palpably present. Lucy strained her eyes against the black void, seeing nothing.
A woman’s voice broke the silence, calm and eerily pleasant.
“You’re awake. That’s good.”