The Hollow Ones(22)

“Sure. What of it?”

“Citizens’ Council is a segregation group.”

“A states’ rights advocacy group.” The coded term came out of his mouth automatically.

“Like I said.”

The sheriff smiled at Solomon’s impudence. “All right. Have it your way. Sure does point the way toward whodunnit.”

“Maybe the color of their skin,” said Solomon. “You still have quite a number of suspects.”

“Why we have to get crackin’ on this. I’ll go door-to-door if I have to. Justice demands it. This community demands it. If I don’t get to the bottom of this, others will try their own methods. This is a public safety issue.”

Solomon took the envelope of photographs from Macklin, who was notably quiet. Solomon pulled out photos of four hanged black men. “You go door-to-door for these ones?”

Sheriff Ingalls looked at the photographs like Solomon was trying to pass him counterfeit money.

Solomon said, “Five lynchings in the past year. Four African Americans, none of them solved. One white man, now you want the county turned upside down.”

Sheriff Ingalls screwed up his face with such distaste that, for a moment, Solomon thought he was going to spit on the photographs. “I knew you wasn’t here to help solve this.” The sheriff pointed a nicotine-stained finger at SAIC Macklin, too. “You all are here to keep me from doing my damn job. To hassle a lawman. When you ain’t got no idea what goes on here.”

Solomon looked to Macklin, the ranking agent, for help. Macklin was at a loss for words.

Solomon was not. He had a lot more to say to the sheriff. But instead he turned his animosity into a tight smile. “Thank you, Sheriff Ingalls, for your cooperation. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

The sheriff looked to Macklin and back. “That’s it?”

“For now,” said Solomon.

Sheriff Ingalls turned on his heels and started away. “Goddamn federal government…”

Solomon watched him go. To Macklin, he said, “Thanks for backing me up.”

“Listen, rookie,” said Macklin. “He’s right, you don’t know shit here. Sometimes you kick in doors, sometimes you tread lightly. What happens if you need his help?”

“He was never going to give it.”

Macklin took the envelope and photos back from Solomon. “I’m saying, try sugar sometimes. Even if you hate the man, you can still use him.”

Macklin and Solomon both saw Agent Tyler hustling toward them, slowing when he passed the sheriff, then hurrying up again as he neared them.

Macklin said, “News?”

“Yessir,” said Tyler, with a glance at Solomon.

“He’s fine,” said Macklin. “Go ahead.”

“A local reporter filed a report with the wire services and it got picked up,” said Tyler. “It’s going to be a coast-to-coast story tomorrow.”

Macklin sighed. “That’s not helpful.”

“Worse,” continued Tyler, “we got word that Klansmen are coming in from Tennessee. And the story about the lynching of a white man is going to bring in more.”

“A tinderbox situation,” said Macklin. “You report back to Jackson with this?”

“They know, that’s where I heard it,” said Tyler.

Macklin turned to Solomon. “You sure you won’t need the sheriff’s help now?”



Solomon left Agent Tyler in the car outside the Jamuses’ house. He knocked on the door and Coleman answered again. “Hello, sir.”

“Coleman,” said Solomon. “Is your mother in any kind of frame of mind to speak with me for a few minutes?”

“She’s sitting with the pastor,” he said, stepping aside for Solomon to enter.

Mrs. Jamus sat deep in a soft club chair that was receptive to her wide frame. She held a handkerchief in each hand, one white, the other pale lavender. The pastor, who introduced himself to Solomon as Theodore Eppert, used a folded months-old newspaper to help fan the inconsolable woman. The sick boy, Solomon learned, was named Vernon. He was the youngest of nineteen children.

“There were these boys,” Mrs. Jamus told Solomon as he sat on the edge of a brittle sofa cushion across the room, “white boys, no older than Coleman here”—Coleman remained standing in the doorway, protectively—“come to the door talking about voter-registration this and signing-this-petition that.” She mopped her brow and the scoop of her neck where it became her chest. “Said they was going around to everyone in the Delta, writing names in a book. In a book.” She looked to the pastor, who with a nod confirmed her worst fear. “Not three, four days later Vernon starts showing his first symptoms. Not three, four days later.”

“Symptoms such as…?”

“Barkin’,” she said. “Back talk. Vernon was the star of Sunday school, he weren’t no back-talker. Not to me. And talkin’ to hisself, and walking around the house in circles. Around and around, mutterin’. All on account of them white boys.” She gripped the pastor’s hand over the wet white handkerchief. “The devil’s come to the Delta, I tell you. I am all prayed out.”

She started to cry again, and Solomon stood and begged her pardon. He had gotten about all he was going to get out of her. Pastor Eppert whispered some calming words to her, then eased his hand out of her grip and rose to follow Solomon out past Coleman.