Faces of the Gone

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With all the vacant lots in Newark, New Jersey-and there were thousands of them-the Director could afford to be picky.

He wanted one near public housing, a red herring for police, who always began their search for suspects in the projects. It had to be dark at night, lest any random passers-by had inquisitive eyes. But it also needed to be in plain sight once day broke. The sooner the bodies were discovered, the sooner the Director’s message could be delivered.

After a brief but diligent search, the Director found the ideal vacant lot on Ludlow Street, in a forgotten South Ward neighborhood. There were projects in every direction, including some of the city’s most notorious. The streetlights had been shot out, so there was no worrying about late-night voyeurs. And-this was perfect-it was next to a church. The shock value would be priceless.

With his second in command, Monty, the Director rounded up the four dealers. They came to their designated places as instructed, thinking they were simply collecting their weekly shipment. They loaded themselves in the back of the van and put on their blindfolds, all part of their training. Then they traveled in silence toward the vacant lot, because the Director ordered them not to speak.

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