Darktown (40 page)

37

THE DAY AFTER
burying Dunlow, Boggs and Smith had reported for duty like any other. Despite suffering the headache of his life, Boggs had no bruises on his face, as the bottle had hit the back of his skull. His ribs ached, and only through prayer and great force of will had he been able to walk without leaning over like the invalid he felt he was.

They tried and failed to reach the Ellsworth family. Various calls placed to different churches in Peacedale had brought them only bits of information. Their messages were routed to different phoneless households by messenger or letter or gossip or God's will. The Ellsworths had fled Peacedale, perhaps to some relations of Emma Mae in a county farther east. Or perhaps, Boggs wondered, they were trying to go to Chicago after all, even though the white cops had stolen all the money Lily had sent them, the hush money her father had paid out in hopes that it would undo his history. Undo her. Perhaps the few surviving Ellsworths would make it up north, would wind up living in an apartment only a few blocks away from some of Boggs's relations who had also made the migration. Or perhaps they would spend the remainder of their days as they had lived them, barely scraping by beneath the boot of another white landowner, a different town and a different county but the same unbreakable rules.

Two days later, no one had come to arrest or fire Boggs.

He had only spoken to Rake once more since that awful night, and briefly: Rake called simply to say that they'd been right about Prescott, but that the truth would never be acknowledged. When Boggs asked why not, Rake had rushed off the phone, promising to explain soon.

The official story, which ran in the back pages of the local paper only
a few hours after that phone call, was that the only son of Congressman Prescott had committed suicide for reasons unknown. It would not do to invade the family's privacy, although a few writers pointed out that the young man had recently presided over a failed restaurant and had yet to make a success of himself the way his father and grandfather had. The governor and mayor offered their condolences, but otherwise this was a private matter.

Boggs heard conflicting rumors that Rakestraw was going to be fired, then that he was going to be promoted. And he heard that the other white cops hated Rake almost as much as they hated the colored officers. Whatever bargain the man had struck, he'd won one thing but lost something else.

Lucius wasn't sure how long it would take for him to relax. If he would ever relax. One day, surely, someone would find Dunlow's body. Even if that didn't happen, at the very least someone would find his incinerated car and track it to the missing cop. Even if
that
didn't happen, surely Dunlow had friends wondering where he was. He was not the type to run off. Boggs wasn't sure how many people knew that Dunlow was coming after him that night or if it had been a random attack, didn't know which accomplices might make the next strike.

Perhaps, if he was very lucky, months and then years would pass, and he would eventually conclude that he had gotten away with it. Then he might be able to exhale.

Until then, the uncertainty was a clamp around his rib cage, squeezing him every day.

One afternoon he walked into the basement precinct an hour early, intending to get a head start on some paperwork. He was surprised to find McInnis down there. After a brief hello, the sergeant—in an untucked blue shirt and khakis—told him, “I received a rather agitated call from the Peacedale sheriff a few days ago. Forgot to mention that.”

“What was he agitated about, sir?”

“He seemed to believe that two Negroes who claimed to be Atlanta police officers had come down to his little town to stir up trouble.”

“That's quite a story, sir.”

McInnis sat down on a desk. “It is. I reminded him that Atlanta police would have had no jurisdiction in Peacedale, and that besides, a Negro officer would know better than to stick his nose in a town like that. I told him any Negro who caused trouble down there could surely be handled by a big man like him.”

Boggs was having trouble figuring out McInnis's angle. After a moment of indecision, he realized his own silence looked rude. So he said, “Thank you, sir.”

McInnis nodded to one of the chairs. “Have a seat. Now, have you ever thought to wonder why I was given the honor of leading you Negro officers?”

“I've wondered it, sir.”

“Then I have a story for you. Have you ever heard tell of the Rust Division?”

“A little bit.”

“Couple of years ago, I was one of the cops given the task of investigating the Atlanta police officers who were deeply involved in numbers running. Not just the ones who were
involved
—cause that was damn near everyone—but the ones who were in charge. It wasn't the kind of job any cop would have asked for, and I don't know why they gave it to me. Thirteen cops lost their jobs because of what I had to do. Four went to jail, and they're still there now. Another nine
could
have gone—should have, in my opinion—but the evidence wasn't strong enough to convict. It
was
strong enough for them to lose their badges and pensions, though.”

“They deserved it.”

McInnis grinned. “Things do seem awfully black and white to you, don't they?”

“I just mean—”

“I don't care what you mean. My point is, I made a lot of enemies. Didn't have a choice, though, did I? If I'd done a bad job, I would've been demoted, or just sent to rot at some desk. If I'd done a
really
bad job, it might have looked like I was colluding with the very men I was investigating, in which case I might have gone to jail myself. So I did a damned excellent job. And lo and behold, when a sergeant was needed to watch over our Negro recruits, I got that job, too.”

Then he explained what Boggs had already learned through Rake: the Rust Division of cops who'd been laid off but were still available for dirty work, for a price.

“This is unofficial. But I've heard enough to believe it. ‘Rust Division,' I kind of like that, a play on cop, copper, but it's old dirty copper so it's got some rust to it. Rather creative for cops.” He shook his head. “Except copper doesn't actually rust.”

“So . . . what sort of things do these ex-cops do?”

“Maybe they don't exist. Maybe it's just a bogeyman story told to keep other cops on their toes. To know that there's a parallel police force out there, off the books, small but operating with impunity because they're being watched out for and paid by some very high-ranking officials.”

“Who are these officials?”

“That's far beyond your pay grade.”

“But you're saying these Rust people are still out there. And the cops who control them, they're out there, too.” He and Rake had concluded it was Sharpe and Clayton, the two cops who had roughly interrogated Ellsworth and then tried to beat Rake into nothingness afterward, who likely hired and then eliminated Underhill. Rake had pointed Chief Jenkins in their direction, but there had been no arrests that Boggs knew of. “They're still on the force, drawing pay.”

“Which should keep all of us on our toes, shouldn't it?”

“Yes, sir.” After a pause, Lucius asked, “Why did you remove Underhill's name from my report? Why not call more attention to this phantom division if it's killing people?”

“Number one, we can't prove they killed anyone. Number two, we are talking about men I tried to put away, men who should have gone to jail after the lottery sting but instead only got fired, and for my trouble, I got sent to the basement of a colored YMCA. So perhaps I am lazy, perhaps I am immoral, or perhaps I am merely loath to reengage battles I'm not permitted to win. And, though this may shock you, Officer Boggs, I've been impressed by you. I think you're becoming nearly adept at this job. I think you may well become good at it one day. And I think that, if certain people in APD had realized that you were looking into a man like Brian Underhill, your already low odds of surviving would have plummeted yet further, and perhaps I don't think that's fair.”

Boggs needed a moment to make sense of this. “You changed my report to protect me?”

“As I said, shocking.” McInnis rolled his eyes. “I don't know what the hell is happening to me down here. The good news for you is, I don't think you have much to worry about with those Rust boys. What happened to Underhill has no doubt scared them. But what you
do
need to be worried about—far more worried than you seem to be—is pretty much every other white cop in this city. If you and your partner decide to take on any investigations of your own again, you will at least be fired, and, at the most, whichever white cop you piss off will decide to permanently remove you from his list of problems. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I intend to be a cop in this city for a long while, Officer Boggs. And if you do, too, then we're going to have to find a way to put up with each other.”

The next afternoon, Boggs was walking home from the grocer's, past a row of vibrant orange lilies, when he heard a car door close. He looked up and saw Rakestraw crossing the street. He hadn't heard or seen the car drive up—Rake had been sitting there waiting.

They met in front of the reverend's house. They stood in the shade, the low branches of the oak nearly touching their heads.

“I was wondering if you were going to stop by,” Boggs said.

“I've been meaning to. Been a bit hairy lately. But I didn't want you to think I'd forgotten. I appreciate all you did to help me out.”

Lucius didn't appreciate the way Rake had phrased that,
you
help
me
out. He said, “There's a lot I'm still not straight on.”

Rake explained again what had happened at Silas Prescott's house that night, the confession and the shooting. All he said beyond that, however, was that the deceased Silas Prescott would never be charged with Lily's murder. Lucius wanted to object, wanted to say the least they could do was officially clear Otis's name, but he knew that wasn't true: there was always less they could do. And that's exactly what white people would do.