I pull out of the line of cars and use my credit card to call Lutjens back. He answers his line in a near whisper.

“This is the only conversation we’re going to have on this matter. Don’t use names.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not the only interested party. A request for the same file came in forty-five minutes before you called. From your local D.A.’s office. An A.M. made the request. You know him?”

Austin Mackey. “Yes. This case is political dynamite down here. He’s probably got the mayor pushing him, trying to cover their asses. Is there any way you can—”

“No copy of the file. No way, no how. Anyway, it’s forty-four volumes.”

“Forty-four volumes! How many pages in each?”

“Two to three hundred.”

“Jesus, I wish I could get a look at that.”

“You’re not alone in your disappointment. A.M. won’t be seeing the file either.”

“Why not?”

“It’s sealed.”

“Sealed how?”

“There are several exceptions to the Freedom of Information Act. Reasons we can refuse to release documents. The most common ones exist to safeguard the lives of informants or to protect the privacy of citizens involved in investigations—”

“I know all that. But A.M. is a law enforcement official.”

“We can also refuse to release documents that pose a risk to national security. Under this exception we can refuse to release documents to anyone, even other law enforcement agencies.”

“This is a thirty-year-old Mississippi murder. It’s got nothing to do with national security.”

“Nevertheless, the file was sealed on grounds of national security in May 1968. The order was signed personally by the director.”

A faint buzzing has started in my head. “J. Edgar Hoover?”

“The man himself. The file can’t be opened for nine more years. Not without a vote by Congress. There’s no telling what you’ve stepped into. Hoover used the rubric of Vietnam to conceal a multitude of sins during the sixties.”

I’m so lost that I don’t even know what questions to ask. “What about the names? The agents.”

“I’m going to send a fax to your office. A list of agents working out of the Jackson, Mississippi, field office in the summer of sixty-eight. I don’t know how complete it is, but it’s the best I can do. Personal memoirs from the period might help you narrow it down.”

“I owe you big-time for this.”

“Yes, you do. Listen, the Bureau has been very supportive of Mississippi prosecutors this year, providing files on these old civil rights cases. Even if the files embarrassed us a bit. This file is obviously different. I’d think long and hard about pursuing it.”

“I will.”

“Watch your back, buddy.”

And with that he is gone.