from voting was âwith pistolsâ). Mayor Hartsfield, a moderate on the race issue, had promised the colored community leaders that he would hire colored cops only if they registered enough voters to make an impact in the municipal elections.
Lucius had been back from the war for a year and a half by then, working at the same black-owned insurance company as his brother Reginald and still seeking his purpose. At the Citizenship School, he had stood in front of nearly a hundred people of varying ages and explained to them how voting worked, where they needed to go to register, what they had to bring. Which nasty questions to anticipate and how to deflect them. How to dress and conduct themselves, what not to say.
Twenty thousand registered Negro voters later (countless pamphlets and endless meetings and long speeches and miles of shoe leather worn down all across the colored neighborhoods of Atlanta) the community had their officers. And because those officers needed a place to change into their uniforms and file their reports, Eakins offered them the Yâs basement.
White officers had proven quite uninterested in knocking downâor even knocking on âthe Yâs door ever since. They grumbled that the Yâs boarding rooms were no doubt a hive of illicit activity with nothing but Negro-quote-cops-unquote to stop them, but Eakins didnât mind the chatter. At least he didnât have to hang another gotdang door.
The ramshackle precinct consisted solely of this subterranean space, badly heated in the winter (so they had been warned) and so humid in the summer that the concrete walls actually sweat. Eight desks were crammed in the room like some rural Negro elementary school. The concrete floor was cracked in places, dirt from below seeping upward, so much so that no matter how well Boggs shined his shoes, they looked dusty when he hit the streets. In the back some Sheetrock and a thin door had been installed to create an office for McInnis, who had asked his own superiors repeatedly if this cup could pass from his lips, but no, someone had to be the martyr and oversee the Negro cops, and it was him.
The showers were three floors up, the toilet was one flight up, and there was often a line for both. Lack of paper and paper clips was a problem. Rats were a larger problem.
On one wall, thumbtacks denoting crimes and suspectsâ addresses adorned a map of their district. Even at this early hour, Boggs could hear a basketball bouncing on the first-floor courts.
That there were eight Negro officers did not alter the way the Atlanta police department went about identifying Negro Jane Does. The first step was shipping the body to the morgue, in the basement of the white headquarters, far removed from the colored officers. The second step was waiting for someone to show up asking where his girl was. If that didnât happen, the third was throwing away the body when space was needed for another dead Negro. The coroner had finally shown up in his wagon to take the body, but, as McInnis had predicted, Homicide never showed.
Most of the bodies Boggs had dealt with were found at crime scenes where the perpetrator was still present, or where the victim lived, or at a venue with several witnesses. This was the first time any uncertainty had been involved. There was no missing persons report matchingher description. The yellow dress sheâd been wearing and the simple necklaceâÂsteel cord and a silverlike heart-shaped locket, emptyâwere the only things on her person that might prove identifying, other than a birthmark on her right shoulder.
âYou done with that report yet, Boggs?â McInnis asked. He was not a fan of Boggsâs report-writing. During their first week, he had read one of Boggsâs reports to the others during roll call. âThe subject vehemently defended himself,â he read, with sarcastic emphasis, and âthe witnessâs aquamarine blouse had become
Lucius had been back from the war for a year and a half by then, working at the same black-owned insurance company as his brother Reginald and still seeking his purpose. At the Citizenship School, he had stood in front of nearly a hundred people of varying ages and explained to them how voting worked, where they needed to go to register, what they had to bring. Which nasty questions to anticipate and how to deflect them. How to dress and conduct themselves, what not to say.
Twenty thousand registered Negro voters later (countless pamphlets and endless meetings and long speeches and miles of shoe leather worn down all across the colored neighborhoods of Atlanta) the community had their officers. And because those officers needed a place to change into their uniforms and file their reports, Eakins offered them the Yâs basement.
White officers had proven quite uninterested in knocking downâor even knocking on âthe Yâs door ever since. They grumbled that the Yâs boarding rooms were no doubt a hive of illicit activity with nothing but Negro-quote-cops-unquote to stop them, but Eakins didnât mind the chatter. At least he didnât have to hang another gotdang door.
The ramshackle precinct consisted solely of this subterranean space, badly heated in the winter (so they had been warned) and so humid in the summer that the concrete walls actually sweat. Eight desks were crammed in the room like some rural Negro elementary school. The concrete floor was cracked in places, dirt from below seeping upward, so much so that no matter how well Boggs shined his shoes, they looked dusty when he hit the streets. In the back some Sheetrock and a thin door had been installed to create an office for McInnis, who had asked his own superiors repeatedly if this cup could pass from his lips, but no, someone had to be the martyr and oversee the Negro cops, and it was him.
The showers were three floors up, the toilet was one flight up, and there was often a line for both. Lack of paper and paper clips was a problem. Rats were a larger problem.
On one wall, thumbtacks denoting crimes and suspectsâ addresses adorned a map of their district. Even at this early hour, Boggs could hear a basketball bouncing on the first-floor courts.
That there were eight Negro officers did not alter the way the Atlanta police department went about identifying Negro Jane Does. The first step was shipping the body to the morgue, in the basement of the white headquarters, far removed from the colored officers. The second step was waiting for someone to show up asking where his girl was. If that didnât happen, the third was throwing away the body when space was needed for another dead Negro. The coroner had finally shown up in his wagon to take the body, but, as McInnis had predicted, Homicide never showed.
Most of the bodies Boggs had dealt with were found at crime scenes where the perpetrator was still present, or where the victim lived, or at a venue with several witnesses. This was the first time any uncertainty had been involved. There was no missing persons report matchingher description. The yellow dress sheâd been wearing and the simple necklaceâÂsteel cord and a silverlike heart-shaped locket, emptyâwere the only things on her person that might prove identifying, other than a birthmark on her right shoulder.
âYou done with that report yet, Boggs?â McInnis asked. He was not a fan of Boggsâs report-writing. During their first week, he had read one of Boggsâs reports to the others during roll call. âThe subject vehemently defended himself,â he read, with sarcastic emphasis, and âthe witnessâs aquamarine blouse had become
Similar Books
