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.