The Hollow Ones(42)

“That’s pork,” explained Solomon.

“On second thought,” he said, “perhaps just a cup of boiled water.” He removed a small paper envelope from his jacket pocket, a packet of tea.

The cook walked around the back wall into the adjoining kitchen. Solomon smiled at the man on the stool next to him, ready to dismiss him. “Unless there’s anything else, I have a report to write, as you can see.”

“I am here because I was told you were asking for me,” said the man. “My name is Hugo Blackwood.”

Solomon turned around, and this time he looked him up and down with fresh eyes. “You’re Hugo Blackwood?” he said.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” said Solomon. “It wasn’t me asking for you. It was a young boy…he’s very sick. Strangely sick. Lives near here, his name is Vernon Jamus. You know him?”

Hugo Blackwood said, “I do not.”

“Well, he—apparently—knows you? Or knows of you. Is there any reason why a six-year-old boy would ask to see you?”

“A boy? No. No reason whatsoever. But I believe I’m well acquainted with the very thing that makes him summon me.”

Solomon had lost all interest in his fried pie. “Well, I can think of one way to find out.” He slid his yellow pad and his pencil into a leather folder. “We’ll go pay him a visit, maybe get to the bottom of this. I should warn you…the boy is psychologically sick. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I agree, we should go to see the boy,” said Hugo Blackwood. “But first I would very much like to see the corpse of the hanged man.”

“The…?” Solomon shook his head. “Why would you want to see that?”

“I might be able to help you with your work here.”

Solomon was confused. “You said you were not here in any professional capacity—”

“That’s correct.”

“Then…why are you here?”

“My curse is that I go where I am needed. And right now, it seems I am very much needed here in Gibbston, Mississippi.”



The county hospital, half an hour’s drive south, was segregated. Solomon, in a borrowed Bureau car, drove past the COLORED ENTRANCE side door, parking under a carport overhang in the main entrance. A signpost inside the entrance read, WAITING ROOM FOR WHITES ONLY—BY ORDER POLICE DEPT.

An old white man sat at a table with a telephone on it inside the foyer. He had only one arm, the cuff of the right-side sleeve of his oxford shirt tucked into the waistband of his pants next to his suspenders clip. He looked to Hugo Blackwood. “Help you?”

Solomon showed the man his FBI badge. “Would you mind directing us to the morgue?”

“Negroes are on the other side of the hospital.”

“The white morgue,” said Solomon.

“What for?”

“To see a dead body. The hanged man from Gibbston. Hack Cawsby.”

The old man looked back and forth between Hugo Blackwood and Solomon. It seemed that having a white man there made it all right. “Side stairs, all the way down.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Solomon, putting a little topspin on his parting congeniality. As they turned the corner, Solomon looked back and saw the gatekeeper dialing his rotary telephone, no doubt calling up Sheriff Ingalls in Gibbston.

Solomon had to wave his badge again to gain entry into the morgue. The gowned attendant knew exactly which drawer table to pull open. The smell was sickening. “You here to release the body to the funeral home?”

Solomon shook his head, covering his nose, gasping for breath.

The attendant grimaced such that his mustache rode up high to cover his nostrils. “Do me a favor and tell them to hurry it up, will you?” He pulled back the sheet and stepped out of the room.

Solomon buried his nose and mouth in his jacket elbow. Blackwood played like he was unaffected.

The flesh of the man’s neck had separated and was further blackened from decomposition. The man’s eyes were closed, his face elongated in agony from his final moments. His wrists were abraded like his throat from the wire restraints.

But Blackwood didn’t appear to be interested in the man’s wounds.

“Would you mind helping me roll him over?”

Solomon found a pair of stiff latex gloves and pulled them on, offering Blackwood a pair.

“Is this really necessary?”

“It is.”

Solomon winced at the thought of moving the cold, fetid corpse. “What are you looking for?”

Blackwood did not answer at first. Of course, corpses do not roll. Solomon had to take the shoulders and Blackwood the feet, and they rotated the body, releasing even more odor.

Solomon backed away, his throat bucking. Blackwood examined the corpse’s hairline, his gloved hand smoothing back the dead man’s thick blond hair. Strands of it came off onto his yellow gloves, along with flakes of scalp.

“What is it?” asked Solomon, between shallow breaths.

Blackwood straightened, his mouth set flat. “Nothing. Help me right him.”

Solomon did, then shoved the drawer closed. The stench lingered.

“How are you able to tolerate this smell?” asked Solomon.

“There are much worse things to tolerate,” said Blackwood, distracted. “Now I need to see the site of the hanging.”