I am about to go in search of Austin Mackey, the district attorney, when I spot him at the edge of the group listening to the mayor. He motions for me to follow him to some chairs in an empty corner. Mackey was a year ahead of me in school from kindergarten through college. A perennial middle-of-the-class kid, he managed to make most athletic teams but never the first string. His grades were unremarkable, and I’m pretty sure he chose Ole Miss Law School so he wouldn’t have to pass the bar exam in order to practice in Mississippi, a rule they changed the year after he went into practice.

“Any particular reason you came home and shat in our little sandbox?” he asks as we sit.

This is not a fortuitous beginning. “Good to see you again, Austin.”

“Skip the sentiment, Cage.” He keeps his eyes on the mayor.

Watching Austin Mackey play the tough throws me a little. But Natchez is his legal fiefdom now, and if he chooses to behave like George Raft in a bad film noir, he can.

“Look, Austin, about that article. Caitlin Masters didn’t exactly—”

“Earth to Cage, give me a fucking break. By now every jig in this town is bitching about how Austin Mackey never lifted a finger to help Mrs. Payton find out who killed her poor baby.”

I don’t know how to segue from this to warm reminiscences of our shared history. Mackey seems to have forgotten we have one. “I just mentioned the Payton case as an example of a local mystery. Because it was an unsolved murder.”

Mackey’s eyes glint with superiority. “Don’t be so sure about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The FBI worked the Payton case. You think they tanked it? Just because no one went to jail for that particular crime doesn’t mean the perp didn’t go down for something.”

“If that’s the case, why not tell the family? Give them some peace.”

“I can’t tell them what I don’t know for sure. Listen, when I ran for D.A., I knew the blacks might ask me about past civil rights cases. So I asked the Bureau for their files on the Payton murder. I was assistant D.A. then, and I requisitioned them in the name of the office.”

“And?”

“They said that unless we’d developed a suspect and had new evidence, they wouldn’t be showing our office any files.”

“Why would they say that?”

“Can I read the mind of J. Edgar Hoover?”

“Hoover? He’s been dead twenty-five years.”