"log one:

i dont fit in. here in new orleans. my accent isnt right. and neither are my taste buds. i miss home. but this is dangerous work. the fellas back in boston would end me if i chickened out. what? after demanding to join the force after the war? no, id be the laughing stock of town.

my mission? they call it the house of the rising sun. back in the day, the brits and frenchies used to use rising suns as signia for brothels. whatever this is, this is worse. this runs deeper. and i gotta find out how.

there was another body today. she was seventeen. ran away from home. or, the plantation nearby. they thought it would be beneficial to give the white men a taste of slave flesh.

taste they did. there was a bite taken out of her buttocks. but no teeth left behind.

i cant snoop too much. the locals are already weary of me. if im found out as a narc...i fear i may lose my life.

but, i was the only one able to leave. i had no kids or husband, nothing after the war. pa died. ma with him. broken heart. nothin much left after that. and, i would be the only one to be able to truly get into the house of the rising sun.

to see what really hides under the floorboards...and maybe catch the heinous killer."

- detective harland

may 27th, 1948