Birmingham, Alabama,

 

May 14th, 2024.

A construction worker named Marcus Thompson stands in the lobby of the Grand View Hotel and feels the weight of every bad decision that led him here.

The hotel has a reputation.
Every contractor in Birmingham knows about it.
They call it the screaming hotel.

Night shift workers report hearing sounds from the second floor.
Voices, crying, banging on walls.

Three different renovation crews walked off the job in the last 2 years.
One foreman said he saw a door that shouldn’t exist.
Another said his tools kept disappearing and reappearing in different rooms.
The last crew quit after 2 weeks, citing structural concerns that nobody could explain.

Marcus doesn’t believe in ghosts.
He believes in mortgage payments.

He believes in keeping his 12-man crew employed.
He believes in the $2.3 million contract that will save Thompson Construction from bankruptcy.

So, when the developer offers him the Grand View renovation full gut job, six stories, 72 rooms, Marcus says yes, even though the bid is 30% higher than normal, even though the developer admits three other contractors turned it down.
Even though Marcus’ own crew looks nervous when he tells them where they’re working.

“The screaming hotel,” his crew chief, Darius, says, wiping sweat from his neck despite the morning chill.
“Boss, you serious?”

“It’s a hotel,” Marcus replies, unrolling a blueprint on the hood of his truck and smoothing it flat with his forearm.
“Old building. Makes noise. That’s it.”

But standing in the lobby on day one, Marcus understands why people are scared.
The grand view isn’t just old.
It’s wrong.
The angles don’t quite line up.
The hallways seem longer than they should be.
And there’s a smell, faint but persistent, like something died in the walls decades ago and nobody ever found it.

The hotel closed in 2023 after the previous owner died.
His son sold it at auction.
The developer who bought it wants to turn it into luxury condos,
but first someone has to gut the place, strip it down to the studs,
and nobody wants to do it except Marcus.
Because Marcus is 3 months behind on his business loan.
Because his father built Thompson Construction from nothing.
And Marcus isn’t going to be the one who loses it.
Because his wife Patricia keeps saying everything will be fine.
But Marcus sees the worry in her eyes when the bills come.

So he ignores the reputation.
He ignores the stories.
He tells his crew to start on the top floor and work their way down.
For 2 months, nothing happens.
They strip the sixth floor.
Then the fifth, then the fourth and third.
The work is normal.
Demo work.
Dirty and loud and exhausting, but normal.

Then they reach the second floor.
That’s when things get strange.

The second floor is different.
Marcus feels it the moment they start working.
The temperature drops 10° when you step off the stairwell.
The lights flicker even though the electrical system is fine.
And there’s that smell again.
Stronger now.
Chemical, medical, like a hospital or a morgue.

His crew feels it, too.
Darius keeps looking over his shoulder.
Two of the younger guys ask to work on a different floor.
Marcus tells them to toughen up.
He needs this job done on schedule.

They start gutting rooms.
231, 232, 233.
All normal, old furniture, damaged walls, decades of wear and tear.
Nothing unusual.
But between room 236 and room 238, there’s a problem.

Marcus is standing in the hallway with the blueprints.
According to the plans, there should be a room 237, 15 by 12 ft.
Same dimensions as every other room on the floor.
But looking at the hallway, there’s just wall, cream colored paint.
No door, no room number.

“That’s the room,” Darius says quietly, his voice barely a whisper.
He won’t step any closer.

“What room?” Marcus asks, though a cold dread is already pooling in his stomach.

“The one people talk about,” Darius finally looks at him, his eyes wide.
“Room 237. They say that’s where the screaming comes from.”

Marcus has heard the stories.
Every construction worker in Birmingham has heard the stories.
Late night security guards hearing crying through the walls.
Cleaning staff refusing to work the second floor.
Guests complaining about sounds that shouldn’t exist.

One story in particular stuck with Marcus.
A security guard in the 90s who quit after one shift said he heard a woman crying behind the walls on the second floor.
Said he followed the sound to a spot between rooms 236 and 238.
Put his ear against the wall and heard two voices, a man and a woman pleading, begging,
“Please let us out. Please, we can’t breathe.”
The guard called the police.
They searched the floor, found nothing, told him it was probably pipes, old building settling.
The guard never came back.

There were other stories.
A housekeeper in 2003 who refused to work the second floor after her vacuum kept unplugging itself.
She’d plug it in, turn around, and it would be unplugged again.
Happened seven times in one shift.
She quit that day.
A maintenance worker in 2010 who said he saw wet footprints in the hallway leading from nowhere to nowhere.
Just footprints appearing on the carpet.
Two sets, one larger, one smaller like two people walking side by side.
The footprints stopped at the wall between rooms 236 and 238.
Just stopped like whoever made them walked straight into the wall and disappeared.

Marcus heard all these stories when he bid on the job.
He dismissed them.
Old buildings make sounds.
Pipes creek.
Floors settle.
People’s imaginations run wild.

But standing here now, looking at the wall where room 237 should be,
Marcus feels something he hasn’t felt in years.
Fear.
Not logical fear.
Not fear of getting hurt on the job or failing to meet a deadline.
Primal fear.
The kind that makes your hind brain scream at you to run.

The previous owner always said room 237 was sealed.
Structural damage, water leak that compromised the floor joists, too expensive to repair, so they just closed it off.
But Marcus looks at the blueprints and something doesn’t add up.
The room is marked on the plans.
Clearly labeled room 237, but from the hallway, you can’t see any evidence it ever existed.

“We’re opening it,” Marcus says.

Darius looks at him.
“Boss, maybe we should—”

“We’re opening it.” Marcus folds the blueprints with a sharp, decisive snap.
“That’s what they’re paying us for.”

Marcus calls the developer, guy named Tom Whitfield.
He paces the hallway as the phone rings.
“Tom, it’s Marcus at the Grand View.
Yeah, listen.
We’ve got a situation.
Room 237.
It’s not on the hallway.
No, the blueprints say it is, but the wall doesn’t.”
He listens for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“That’s what I’m calling about.
The previous owner said structural damage.
You got any reports on that?”
Right.
“Thought so.
We’re going in through 236.”

He hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket.
Whitfield told him to do whatever he needs to do.
The previous owner claimed there was structural damage, but Whitfield never saw any reports, never saw any permits, just paperwork saying the room was out of order since 1983, 41 years.

Marcus makes a decision.
They’re going in through room 236, knock down the shared wall, see what’s on the other side.

That night, Marcus can’t sleep.
He lies in bed thinking about the wall, about the stories, about room 237.
Patricia rolls over, the mattress springs creaking.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He stares at the ceiling fan, a dark shadow spinning in the dark, “Just thinking about work.”
“The hotel?”
“Yeah.”

She’s silent for a beat, then sits up, pulling the sheet with her.
“You’re worried about something.”

Marcus doesn’t answer right away.
Patricia knows him too well.
They’ve been married 22 years.
She can read his silences better than most people can read words.
“There’s a sealed room,” Marcus says finally.
“Second floor. Been closed since 1983.
We’re opening it tomorrow.”
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know.
That’s what worries me.”
“You think something’s wrong?”
“I think something’s been wrong for 41 years.
I just don’t know what.”

Patricia sits up.
“Marcus, if you think there’s danger—”
“It’s not danger.
Not like that.
It’s just—”
He struggles to find words.
“You know how sometimes you just know something’s not right.
Before you have proof, before you have evidence, you just know in your gut.”
“Yes.”
“That’s what this feels like.”

She takes his hand.
“Then trust your gut.
Be careful tomorrow.”

The next morning, Marcus and Darius set up in room 236.
It’s a standard hotel room stripped bare now.
Just studs and subflooring and old pipes.
Marcus marks the wall where they’ll cut.
According to the blueprints, this is the shared wall between 236 and 237.
Darius picks up the sledgehammer.
He looks at Marcus, his knuckles white on the handle.
“You sure about this, boss?”

Marcus nods once, his jaw set.
“Do it.”

Darius swings.
The hammer punches through drywall.
Dust explodes.
Plaster rains down.
He swings again and again.
Each impact opens the wall a little more.
After 20 minutes of work, they have a hole big enough to look through.
Marcus grabs a flashlight and shines it into the darkness beyond.

He sees a room.
Old furniture, a bed frame, a dresser, thick dust covering everything, cobwebs in the corners, but no obvious structural damage, no collapsed floor, no water stains.
“Looks stable,” Marcus says.
“Keep going.”

They widen the opening until Marcus can step through.
The floor feels solid under his boots.
No creaking, no sagging.
Whatever structural damage supposedly existed, Marcus can’t see it.
He sweeps his flashlight around.
The room is frozen in time.
1980s decor.
Floral wallpaper faded but intact.
Brown carpet stained and worn.
A rotary phone on the nightstand.
Curtains drawn over the window.
And that smell, stronger in here.
Chemical sharp like formaldehyde.

“Bring work lights.” Marcus calls back through the hole.
Darius passes LED lights through.
Marcus sets them up.
Harsh white light floods the space.
The room is smaller than it should be.
Marcus can tell immediately.
He pulls out his tape measure.
According to the blueprints, room 237 should be 15 ft deep, but measuring from the door wall to the back wall, it’s only 10 ft.

“We’re missing 5 ft,” Marcus says, his voice muffled by the drywall dust.
Darius climbs through the hole, kicking up a cloud of his own.
“What do you mean?”
“This room.” Marcus gestures with the tape measure.
“It’s too small. There’s space missing.”

They walk to the back wall.
The one opposite where the hallway door should be.
Marcus knocks on it with his knuckles.
Hollow.
Definitely hollow.
He knocks on the side walls.
Solid.
He can feel the studs through the drywall, but the back wall sounds empty.

“There’s something behind this,” Marcus says.
“Like what?” Darius shines his own light on the wall as if trying to see through it.
“I don’t know.
Another room, a closet, storage space.”

Marcus studies the wall.
It looks newer than the rest.
Different texture to the drywall.
Different paint color barely noticeable, but there.
“This wall was added later.
Someone built it to hide something.”
“We’re taking it down,” Marcus decides.

Darius hefts the sledgehammer.
He swings at the back wall.
The hammer punches through easily, too easily.
This wall is newer, probably built in the 80s based on the materials.
They knock a hole in it.
Marcus shines his flashlight through.
What he sees makes him step back.

There’s a space behind the wall, 5 ft deep, just like the blueprint said, but it’s not empty.
There’s a mattress on the floor and on the mattress, two people.
They’re not moving.

“Oh, Jesus,” Darius whispers, stumbling back a step and bumping into the wall.
“Boss, are those—”

“Back up!” Marcus puts a hand on Darius’s chest, shoving him gently back toward the hole.
His voice is steady, but his hands are shaking.
“Back up right now.
Don’t touch anything.”

They widen the hole enough for Marcus to see clearly.
The work light cuts through the darkness of the hidden space.
Two people lie on a mattress on the floor.
A young black couple, early 20s, maybe.
They’re lying on their backs side by side, fingers intertwined.
The woman wears a white slip.
The man wears an undershirt and boxer shorts.
Their skin is brown and leathery, mummified, but their faces are peaceful, eyes closed like they just fell asleep.
Next to the mattress, neatly folded clothes, a white wedding dress, a black tuxedo, white heels, black dress shoes on the floor.
An unopened champagne bottle, two glasses, a vase with flowers dead now, just dried stems.

Marcus backs away from the wall.
His boot hits something.
He looks down.
A leather journal, black cover, worn edges.
It’s lying in the main room near the false wall like someone dropped it before sealing the space.
Marcus picks it up.
He knows he shouldn’t.
Knows this is a crime scene, but his hands move before his brain can stop them.
He opens the journal.
First page, James Carter, written in neat handwriting.
He flips to the last entry.

“June 11th, 1983.
Michelle and I are officially married.
Best day of my life.
We’re at the Grand View Hotel in Birmingham for our honeymoon weekend.
The room isn’t great.
They gave us the one by the boiler after losing our reservation for the suite, but we don’t care.
Tomorrow I’m meeting with the owner about the discrimination case.
He knows he’s going to lose, but tonight we’re just going to be happy.
Michelle looks so beautiful.
I can’t believe she’s my wife.
Nothing can ruin this moment.”

Marcus reads it twice.
His throat tightens.
His vision blurs.
James and Michelle Carter.
Newlyweds.
24 years old.
They came here for their honeymoon 41 years ago.
and someone sealed them in this wall to die.

“Darius,” Marcus says quietly.
“Call 911.
Tell them we found bodies.
Tell them to send homicide.”

Darius pulls out his phone with shaking hands.
He fumbles the unlock code twice before his fingers work.
Marcus hears him talking to the dispatcher.
Something about the Grand View Hotel.
Something about human remains.
Something about please send someone immediately.

Marcus looks through the hole in the false wall one more time at James and Michelle Carter at their joined hands, at their peaceful faces.
The Grand View Hotel isn’t haunted.
It never was haunted.
It’s a tomb, and for 41 years, nobody knew.

Sirens approach in the distance.
Marcus and Darius climb back through the hole into room 236.
They sit in the hallway and wait.
Marcus thinks about the security guard who heard voices begging to be let out.
About the housekeeper whose vacuum kept unplugging, about the maintenance worker who saw footprints leading to the wall.
Maybe the Grand View Hotel was haunted after all.
Maybe James and Michelle had been trying to tell someone they were there trying to make noise, trying to get attention for 41 years, and nobody listened.
until now.

The Birmingham Police Department sends eight units.
Ambulances, medical examiner, crime scene investigators.
They seal off the entire second floor.
Yellow tape across the stairwell.
Officers stationed at every entrance.
Marcus sits in the hallway while cops swarm around him.
He’s given his statement three times already.
The same information each time.
Yes, he’s the contractor.
Yes, he found the bodies.
No, he didn’t know they were there.
Yes, he touched the journal.
Yes, he knows he shouldn’t have.

Detective Sarah Williams arrives an hour after the initial call.
She’s 52 years old, black woman, short natural hair going gray, 28 years on the Birmingham PD, 15 years in homicide.
She stands in room 237, looking through the hole in the false wall and her face goes pale.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
A uniformed officer approaches her.
“Detective, you okay?”
Williams doesn’t answer.
She raises one hand, a silent wait, and just stares at the bodies.
Finally, she turns to the officer, her face a mask of cold professionalism.
“Get me everything we have on missing persons from 1983.
Specifically anyone who disappeared from this hotel and find me the contractor who discovered them.”

The officer points at Marcus.
“That’s him, Marcus Thompson.”

Williams walks over.
She looks exhausted already and the day just started.
“Mr. Thompson, I’m Detective Williams.
I need to ask you some questions.”
Marcus stands up.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Walk me through what happened.
Everything.”

Marcus tells her the renovation contract, the sealed room, opening the wall from room 236, finding the room too small, knocking down the false wall, discovering the hidden space, the bodies, the journal.
“You read the journal,” William says.
Not a question, a statement.
“Yes, ma’am.
I know I shouldn’t have.”
“What did it say?” She cuts him off, her eyes fixed on his.
“Names.
James and Michelle Carter.
They were here for their honeymoon, June 1983.
The last entry mentioned a discrimination case.
James was meeting with the hotel owner.”

Williams closes her eyes.
When she opens them, they’re wet.
“You know them?” Marcus asks.

“My mother worked their case,” Williams says, her voice is shaking.
“1983.
I was 10 years old.
I remember her talking about it.
Young black couple from Atlanta, just married, came to Birmingham for honeymoon, never went home.
The hotel owner, Richard Dunore, said they checked out Sunday morning.
My mother didn’t believe him, but she had no evidence, no witnesses, just Dunore’s word against a missing couple’s families case went cold.”

“He lied,” Marcus says.
“He murdered them,” Williams corrects.
“And he sealed them in that wall.
And for 41 years, we never found them.”
She looks at Marcus.
“My mother died 5 years ago.
She never stopped thinking about James and Michelle Carter.
Never stopped wondering what happened to them.”

“I’m sorry.” Marcus says,
“Don’t be sorry.
You found them.
You gave them a voice.”

Williams pulls out her notebook.
“I need everything.
Timeline.
What you saw, what you touched, every detail.
This is a murder investigation, Mr. Thompson.
Someone killed those people.
Someone built that wall.
Someone kept this secret for four decades.
And I’m going to find out who.”

The medical examiner arrives at 2 in the afternoon.
Dr. Patricia Montgomery, white woman, mid-60s, been doing this job for 30 years.
She examines the bodies in the hidden space.
Preliminary cause of death, carbon monoxide poisoning.
Both victims.
The physical signs are consistent.
Cherry red skin discoloration visible under the mummification.
Based on decomposition and preservation methods, time of death is between June 11th and June 13th, 1983.
The bodies were treated with formaldehyde shortly after death.
Doctor Montgomery explains.
“That’s why they’re in this condition.
Someone knew what they were doing.
Someone with embalming knowledge or access to someone who did.”

“When was the false wall built?” Williams asks.

Marcus speaks up.
“Based on the materials, the drywall, the 2x4s, the joint compound, I’d say early to mid-80s.
Definitely not original to the building.”

Williams makes notes.
“So, someone killed them, preserved them, built a wall around them, then sealed the entire room from the hallway.”
She looks at Montgomery.
“This wasn’t panic.
This was calculated, premeditated.”
Montgomery agrees.
“Who owned this hotel in 1983?” Williams asks.

An officer checks his notes.
“Richard Dunore owned it from 1975 until his death in 2019.”
“Where’s his son now?”
“Robert Dunore lives in Mountain Brook.
Inherited the property when his father died.”

Williams closes her notebook.
“Set up an interview.
I want to talk to him today.”

Marcus goes home that evening.
He’s exhausted, physically and emotionally drained.
He walks through the door and Patricia takes one look at his face and knows what happened.
Marcus tells her everything.
The sealed room, the false wall, James and Michelle Carter, the journal entry about a discrimination lawsuit, the detective’s mother working the case 41 years ago.
Patricia sits down heavily.
“Those poor people.
24 years old, just married.
Someone murdered them on their honeymoon.”

“The detective thinks it was the hotel owner, Richard Dunore.”
“Can she prove it?”
“I don’t know.
He’s been dead for 5 years.”

Marcus can’t sleep.
He lies in bed thinking about James and Michelle, about their last journal entry, about how happy they were, about how someone took everything from them.
At 5 in the morning, he gets up, grabs his laptop, starts searching.
James Carter, Michelle Carter, missing Birmingham 1983, brings up newspaper articles.

Birmingham News, June 15th, 1983.
Atlanta couple reported missing.
James Carter, 24, and Michelle Peterson Carter, 24, of Atlanta, Georgia, were reported missing Monday by their families.
The couple was last seen checking into the Grand View Hotel on Friday, June 10, for their honeymoon weekend.
Hotel manager Richard Dunore stated the couple checked out Sunday morning, June 12.
Family members say the Carters never returned home.
The Carter’s vehicle was found in the hotel parking lot.
Birmingham police are investigating.

Marcus keeps searching.
Finds a follow-up from July 1983.
Missing couple case stalls.
Birmingham police have made no progress in the disappearance of James and Michelle Carter.
Detective Robert Hayes stated that no evidence of foul play has been found.
“We’ve exhausted all leads,” Hayes said, “At this point, we believe the couple may have left the area voluntarily.”
The Carter’s families dispute this claim and then the story disappears.
No more articles, no updates.
The case was forgotten.

Marcus searches James Carter lawyer Atlanta discrimination and finds what he’s looking for.
Atlanta Journal Constitution, May 19th, 1983.
Civil rights attorney files hotel discrimination complaint.
James Carter, 24, a recent graduate of Emory Law School, has filed a formal complaint with the Alabama Civil Rights Commission against the Grand View Hotel in Birmingham.
Carter alleges the hotel engaged in systematic discrimination against black guests, including cancelling confirmed reservations, assigning inferior rooms, and charging higher rates.
“This is about a pattern of behavior designed to discourage black patrons while technically remaining legal,” Carter stated.
Hotel owner Richard Dunore denied the allegations, calling them baseless and motivated by publicity seeking.

There it is, motive.
James Carter was 24 years old, fresh out of law school, filing a discrimination complaint that could destroy Richard Dunore’s business.
And one month later, James and Michelle were dead.

Marcus calls Detective Williams at 6:30 in the morning.
She answers immediately.
“Mr. Thompson,”
“I found articles.
James Carter filed a discrimination complaint against the Grand View Hotel in May 1983, one month before he and Michelle died.”

Silence on the line.
Then,
“Send me everything.
I’m interviewing Robert Dunore this afternoon.
This changes things.”

Robert Dunore lives in Mountain Brook, Birmingham’s wealthy suburb.
Big colonial house, white columns, circular driveway, everything screaming old money.
Detective Williams brings Marcus with her.
Technically, he shouldn’t be there.
He’s a civilian, not law enforcement.
But Williams says Marcus deserves to see this through.
He found James and Michelle.
He gave them justice.

Dunore answers the door in golf clothes, polo shirt, and khakis.
He looks annoyed when he sees the police.
“Mr. Dunore, I’m Detective Williams.
This is Marcus Thompson.
We have questions about room 237.”

Dunore’s face pales slightly.
“I already told the officers.
My father said it was sealed because of structural damage, water damage or something.”

“Except there was no water damage,” William says.
“Mr. Thompson is a contractor.
He’s been through that room.
Floors solid.
Walls are solid.
No structural issues at all.”

“Then my father was mistaken.” Dunore tries to cross his arms.
A weak attempt at defiance.

“Your father was lying,” William says bluntly.
“Because your father didn’t seal room 237 because of water damage.
He sealed it because he murdered two people and hid their bodies inside.”

Dunore steps back.
“That’s insane.
My father would never—”

“James and Michelle Carter, 24 years old, married one week, came to your father’s hotel for their honeymoon in June 1983.
Your father killed them.
He sealed them in a false wall.
Then he sealed the entire room from the hallway.
And for 41 years, nobody knew.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”
Dunore tries to puff up his chest, but his eyes dart to the door.

“When did you find out?” Marcus asks, his voice low and hard.
Dunore looks at him, baffled.
“What?”
“When did you find out your father was a murderer?
When he told you on his deathbed?
When you went through his papers after he died?”
When?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”
“No, you don’t,” Williams agrees.
“But I’m getting a warrant for your father’s storage unit, for his business records, for every document related to the Grand View Hotel.
And if I find evidence that you knew about those bodies and didn’t report it, you’re going to prison.
Accessory after the fact, obstruction of justice, 20 years minimum.”

“I want my lawyer,” Dunore says, his voice suddenly small.
“That’s your right.” Williams flips her notebook shut.
“We’ll be in touch.”

Williams and Marcus leave Dunore standing in his doorway, the picture of wealthy panic.
They sit in Williams’s car in the driveway.
“He knows something,” Marcus says,
“Yeah, and we’re going to find out what.”

2 days later, Williams gets her warrant.
She and Marcus meet at a storage facility in Hoover at 8:00 in the morning.
Williams brings a team, two officers, a forensic accountant, a paralegal from the DA’s office.
The unit is crammed with boxes and file cabinets.
40 years of records from the Grand View Hotel.
They start digging box by box, file by file.

Marcus finds it at 11:30.
A filing cabinet marked legal 1980s.
Inside, folders for lawsuits and complaints.
And in the back, a folder labeled Carter discrimination case.
“Detective, I got something.”

Williams comes over, opens the folder.
Inside are letters between Richard Dunore and his attorney discussing the discrimination complaint, discussing strategy, discussing ways to make James Carter’s case go away.
And at the bottom, a handwritten note on Grand View Hotel letterhead, dated June 11th, 1983.
“Carter and his wife checked in tonight.
Room 237.
Gave them the worst room on purpose by the boiler.
If he wants to destroy my business, I’ll destroy his honeymoon.
Let’s see how he likes being treated like shit in my hotel.”

“This proves premeditation,” William says.
“Proves Dunmore knew who James was.
Proves he gave him that room intentionally.”
“Keep looking,” Marcus says.
“There has to be more.”

At the bottom of the same filing cabinet in a folder marked personal, they find a cassette tape labeled the 13th of June 1983.
“Anyone have a cassette player?” Williams asks, holding the small plastic rectangle up like a bomb.
An officer runs to his car, returns with an old boom box.
Williams blows dust off the play button, and puts the tape in.
She presses down, and the button clicks loudly in the silence.

Static, then a voice.
Male, southern accent.
Older, drunk.
“My name is Richard Allen Dunore.
It’s June 13th, 1983.
2:47 a.m.
I’m recording this as insurance in case this ever comes back on me.”
Marcus feels his stomach drop.

“That lawyer came to my hotel Friday.
James Carter.
I knew who he was.
I knew he was trying to sue me.
So, I gave him room 237.
Worst room in the building.
Right by the boiler.
Figured maybe he’d leave.
Maybe he’d complain and I’d add it to my defense, show how unreasonable he was.”
Sound of ice clinking in a glass.
“Saturday morning, he came to my office.
Said he had evidence.
Signed statements from former employees, black employees who I’d fired after they complained about how I treated black guests.
Said he had documentation.
Said he was going to file a formal lawsuit.
Said he was going to shut me down.
Said I deserved it.”
Pause.

“I didn’t plan it.
I swear to God I didn’t plan it.
But I was standing there listening to this 24 year-old kid tell me he was going to destroy everything I built.
And I just… I snapped.
After he left my office, I went to the basement.
There’s a valve down there that controls ventilation to each room.
I shut off the valve to room 237.
Then I opened the gas line from the boiler.
Just a crack, just enough to let carbon monoxide flow into the room.”
Marcus grabs Williams’s arm.
It’s colorless, odorless.
They’d never know.
They’d just fall asleep and they wouldn’t wake up.

“I went up Sunday morning, 6:00 a.m. before anyone else was awake.
Used my master key, opened the door.
They were dead, both of them, lying in bed, holding hands.
They looked peaceful.”
The voice cracks.
“I called my friend Tom.
He works at the funeral home, does embalming.
I told him I needed help.
Told him there had been an accident.
He came over with formaldehyde.
We treated the room, sealed the vents, made sure nothing would smell.
Then I built a false wall 5 ft from the back wall, put their bodies behind it, put their clothes behind it, everything.
Sealed it up.
Then I drywalled over the hallway door.
Painted it.
Made the room disappear.”

Silence.
Just breathing.
“Monday morning, I filed a permit with the city.
Gas leak in room 237.
Emergency repair.
Had to seal the room for safety.
My buddy at the city approved it.
No inspection.
No follow-up.
I told the police the Carters checked out Sunday morning.
Showed them the log book.
I signed them out myself.
They believed me.
Of course they believed me.
I’m white.
I’m a businessman.
Why wouldn’t they believe me?”

More silence.
“I don’t feel guilty.
I want that on record.
James Carter was trying to destroy me.
He left me no choice.
That’s self-defense.
That’s justifiable.
The law might not see it that way, but I know the truth.”

The tape ends.
Nobody moves.
Nobody speaks.
They stand in the storage unit staring at the boom box.
Finally, William says,
“That’s a full confession.
Murder, premeditation, cover up, all of it.”
“He kept it for 41 years,” Marcus says.
“As insurance in case someone suspected him, he could use it to cut a deal, but nobody ever suspected him.”

Williams pulls out her phone.
“I’m arresting Robert Dunore.
Today.”

They find more evidence.
A letter in Robert Dunore’s handwriting dated December 2019, 1 month after his father died.
“I went through dad’s storage unit, found his safe.
Inside was a cassette tape.
Dad’s voice confessing to murder.
Confessing to killing James and Michelle Carter in 1983.
I don’t know what to do.
If I go to the police, the families will sue the estate.
They’ll take everything.
But if I stay quiet, if I just sell the hotel and walk away, maybe nobody will ever know.
I’m choosing to stay quiet.
I’ll sell the property.
Take the money.
Let someone else deal with it.
Maybe the secret dies with dad.”

Williams photographs everything.
Bags it as evidence.
Robert Dunore knew his father was a murderer.
He knew those bodies were in that wall and he kept it secret for 5 years so he could inherit the money.

They drive to Mountain Brook.
Williams has backup four patrol cars.
They arrest Robert Dunore in his driveway.
“Robert Dunore, you’re under arrest for accessory after the fact to murder and obstruction of justice.”
She cuffs him, reads him his rights.
Officers put him in a patrol car.
“I want my lawyer!” Dunore shouts, twisting as the officers guide him into the back of the car.
“You’ll get one,” William says, not bothering to raise her voice.
She turns to Marcus.
“We got them, father and son.
The father’s dead, but at least we can make the son pay.”

Marcus nods, but he doesn’t feel satisfied because James and Michelle Carter are still dead.
Their family still suffered for 41 years.
But it’s something.

Williams drives Marcus to Atlanta to notify Michelle’s parents.
They deserve to hear it in person.
Ruth and David Peterson live in southwest Atlanta.
Small house, neat yard.
Ruth answers the door.
She’s in her 80s now, small and frail.
She looks at Williams’s badge, then at Marcus.
Her eyes clouded with age, suddenly sharpen and fill with tears.
“You found my baby,” she says, her voice a fragile rasp.
Her hand comes up to her mouth.
“Yes, ma’am,” Williams replies, her own voice thick.
“Can we come in?”

They tell Ruth and David everything.
The sealed room, the false wall, the bodies, Richard Dunore’s confession, Robert Dunore’s cover up.
Ruth cries.
David just stares ahead, processing 41 years of grief.
“Why?” David asks.
“Why did he kill them?”
“James was suing him for discrimination,” Williams explains.
“Dunore thought he’d lose his business, so he murdered them over a lawsuit.”
“He killed my daughter over a lawsuit.”

Marcus speaks up.
“Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, I’m going to make sure people remember James and Michelle.
I’m working with the developer to create a memorial at the hotel to tell their story to honor what James was fighting for.”

Ruth takes Marcus’ hands.
“Thank you.
Thank you for finding her.
Thank you for bringing our baby home.”

They stay for two hours looking at old photos, hearing stories about Michelle and James, about their childhoods, their college years, their wedding.
Ruth shows Marcus their wedding album.
James in his tuxedo.
Michelle in her wedding dress.
Both smiling, both so young, both so full of hope.
“They had their whole lives ahead of them,” Ruth says.
“They were going to have children.
James wanted three.
Michelle wanted two.
They were going to buy a house.
They were going to grow old together.”
She wipes her eyes.
“And Richard Dunore took all of that away because James had the courage to stand up to him because James refused to accept being treated like a second-class citizen.”

David adds,
“James believed in the law, believed the system could work, believed he could use his education to make things better for people like us, and someone killed him for it.”

Marcus listens, takes it all in.
These aren’t just victims anymore.
They’re people.
Real people with dreams and plans and families who love them.
When they leave, Ruth hugs Marcus for a long time.
“You’re a good man,” she says.
“James would have liked you.”

3 months later, Robert Dunore pleads guilty.
The evidence is overwhelming.
His father’s confession.
His own letter admitting he knew.
The DA offers 18 years.
No early release.
The sentencing hearing is packed.
Ruth and David are there.
James’s brother flies in from California.
Civil rights leaders attend.
The press fills the back rows.
The judge asks if anyone wants to make a statement.
Ruth stands, walks to the front, looks at Robert Dunore.
“You didn’t kill my daughter,” she says.
“But you let her stay dead for 5 years.
You knew she was in that wall.
You knew we were suffering.
You knew we deserved answers.
And you chose money over justice.
You chose your inheritance over our peace.
For that, I will never forgive you.”

The judge sentences Dunore to 18 years.
Guards take him away.
He doesn’t look back.
Outside the courthouse, reporters swarm.
Marcus slips away before they can ask questions.

6 months later, the memorial opens.
Marcus designed it himself.
Photos of James and Michelle, their wedding picture, articles about the discrimination case, copies of James’s legal briefs from the Southern Justice Coalition, Michelle’s social work certifications, a timeline of civil rights history in Birmingham, and a plaque in memory of James Carter and Michelle Peterson Carter, June 11th, 1983.
Newlyweds, activists, victims of hatred.
James fought for justice.
Someone killed him for it.
May their story remind us.
The fight for equality continues.

Ruth and David attend.
So do dozens of others.
The mayor speaks.
Civil rights leaders speak.
Students from the University of Alabama come.
The story makes national news.

Marcus stands in the back with Patricia.
“You did good,” she says,
“I just found them.”
“You gave them justice.
You made sure they’re remembered.
That matters.”

Marcus became an advocate after that.
Started the Carter Initiative, a program training contractors to recognize suspicious construction to know what to look for, to call police before disturbing potential crime scenes.
Over the next 5 years, the program helped solve eight cold cases across the South.
Bodies hidden in walls, in crawl spaces, in sealed rooms, victims who’d been forgotten, families who’d been waiting decades for answers.
Marcus spoke at conferences, trained contractors, worked with police departments, all because he knocked down a wall and refused to look away.

5 years after finding James and Michelle, Marcus stands in the memorial again.
It’s the anniversary of their deaths.
June 11th,
Ruth and David are gone now.
Both passed within 6 months of each other, but their grandchildren are here.
James’s nieces and nephews.
Michelle’s cousins.
A young woman approaches Marcus.
Early 20s.
She looks like Michelle,
“Mr. Thompson.
I’m Michelle’s granddaughter.
Well, her sister’s granddaughter.
I wanted to thank you for everything you did.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t find them sooner,” Marcus says,
“You found them.
That’s what matters.
My great-grandmother died knowing what happened to her daughter.
That’s a gift.
Before you, she died every day not knowing, wondering, hoping.
You gave her peace.”
She hands Marcus something.
A photo.
James and Michelle on their wedding day.
Young, happy, in love.
“My great-grandmother wanted you to have this.
She said, ‘You’re part of their story now.
You’re the one who made sure they’re remembered.’”

Marcus takes the photo.
His vision blurs.
Patricia stands next to him.
“You changed things.”
“I just knocked down a wall.”
“You did more than that.”
Patricia takes his hand, her grip firm.
“You cared when nobody else did.
You fought when it would have been easier to walk away.
You gave two people their dignity back.
That’s not nothing, Marcus.
That’s everything.”

Marcus looks at the memorial, at the photos, at James and Michelle’s faces, at the plaque bearing their names.
They came to Birmingham for a honeymoon.
They died because James had the courage to demand equality.
They were sealed in a wall for 41 years.
Their families suffered.
Their killer went free.
But Marcus Thompson knocked down a wall, found them, told their story, made sure people knew what happened.

And because he did, James and Michelle Carter weren’t just victims.
They were heroes.
They were martyrs.
They were remembered.
And in the end, that was justice.
Not the justice they deserved, but the justice one man could give them.
The justice of remembering.
The justice of refusing to look away.
The justice of caring when nobody else did.