The Hollow Ones(10)

“When they said they were sending somebody named Solomon to help with the interviews,” said Macklin, “I told them we needed a Negro, not a Jew.”

Macklin’s mouth unzipped a thin-lipped smile that revealed his teeth the way a surgeon’s incision reveals interior organs. The other men smiled also and waited for Solomon to respond, so that they would know what kind of Negro they had on their hands here. Solomon looked each man in the eye, letting them twist in suspense a few moments longer than necessary, then nodded and smiled. He needed their help, and he was the low man on the totem pole—if he was even on the totem pole.

There was more idle talk, but Solomon became distracted, his attention tuned to singing in the nearby church. There was, in the congregation’s voices, none of the joy he associated with a Southern Baptist service:

He goes before me,

And is beside me,

So I am not afraid.



It was a mournful song. There was great anxiety in the air, hanging oppressively along with the heat and the humidity. Assigning Solomon here showed desperation on the part of the FBI, perhaps at the direction of the White House. Dispatching him to Gibbston to liaise with the Negro community in the Deep South was akin to sending a Communist to listen to the concerns of pinkos.

The service ended and the churchgoers started filing out. Dressed in their Sunday best, they made their way down the steps to the dirt sidewalk, the men replacing their hats upon their heads.

Macklin and the others had advice for Solomon. “Just let them see you here, let ’em get curious. You don’t want to scare anybody.”

But Solomon knew that Sunday morning from eleven A.M. to noon was the only time the majority of the local black community would or could assemble. Missing this opportunity meant waiting another week at the very least.

He said as much to SAIC Macklin.

“No,” Macklin told him, “we’ll go around and do some interviews individually later today and tomorrow.”

Solomon watched the churchgoers saying their goodbyes and getting ready to disperse. He thought that there was an element of…if not fear, then trepidation, in Macklin’s desire for him to avoid this crowd.

“Sir,” said Solomon, already stepping into the street, “I’m going.”

Solomon got halfway there before he realized the men were following him. Solomon couldn’t have that. Why was he here, otherwise?

“Sirs,” he said, “I think it best you wait here.”

And they did. Solomon continued across the street, and he saw the congregants watching him come. They saw that he had stopped the white lawmen from accompanying him. They were stunned that a young black man had such authority.

“Good day, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, introducing himself to the silent observers. “I am Special Agent Earl Solomon.” He showed them his badge and ID card from his flip book, then replaced it inside his jacket breast pocket. He noticed many of them looking past him at the white lawmen across the street. “The Bureau dispatched me here to Gibbston to assist in the investigation of the homicides by lynching.”

The pastor emerged from the church doors, stopping on the top step, behind the faithful. He had shed his robe, dressed in an open-necked white cotton shirt and dark slacks, mopping at his brow. A blaze of silver in his black hair distinguished him with the effect of a candle in the darkness.

Solomon nodded to him respectfully, but felt an unusual suspicion in the preacher’s manner. Perhaps the pastor was simply unused to another black man compelling the attention of his assembled faithful.

Solomon continued, “You should know that the federal government is interested in hearing your concerns and bringing an end to this violence. Your rights are to be protected. I am here looking for any information whatsoever any one of you might have pertaining to any of the recent murders.”

Their faces. Looking back and forth from the local sheriff behind him to Solomon. He stood before them like an emissary from another planet.

A burly man in his fifties plucked at the placket of his shirt for ventilation. “You a company man,” he said.

Solomon dipped his head to one side, allowing that. “Yes, I am. The company is the FBI and I am its agent.”

“And we are to trust you?”

“I think you have to start somewhere.”

Another man pulled off his wire-rimmed eyeglasses, polishing the lenses on his necktie. “I heard ’bout you. The first agents. Read a story in Jet magazine. They trying to integrate the FBI.”

“Yessir, that’s correct,” said Solomon.

“He’s just a child,” said a trim older woman in a stiff blue dress.

“A child with a badge,” said another man.

The older woman said, “Now that a white man’s been strung up, they send you.”

“I go where I’m assigned,” said Solomon. “What matters is, I’m here now.”

“Get us to snitch,” said the older woman. “Make some arrests for the white lynching and vanish out of here.”

Solomon took care to nod respectfully to her when he said, “No, ma’am.”

Solomon looked to the pastor. No outward indication in his manner, but he knew he needed this man of God’s help. The pastor wrinkled up his nose a bit, like sweat from the noonday sun was getting to his upper lip.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, “I believe that this man, Agent…?”