Before Solomon could ask his name again, the cook slid a plate of fried pie in front of him. It was a fruit-filled turnover, fried and sprinkled with confectioners’ sugar. The cook side-eyed the white man and asked Solomon, “This guy okay?”

Solomon shrugged and turned to his European seatmate. “Interested in some pie?”

“What is it?” asked the British man.

The cook said, “Crab Lantern. Ain’t crab apples, though. Macintosh.”

The Brit said, “Can you prepare it with meat inside?”

“Pigmeat?” said the cook.

“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.