Chapter 2 Censored

The same clock that sounded the hour that Newt Lee left for his rounds of the factory building also sounded the hour that three officers at the Atlanta police station were released from their night's work. The night had been simple for police reporters. The big presses in the office were cranking out pages of printed material for city residents to pass the time on Sundays between breakfast and the start of church, but easy nights are tiring nights, and the welcome hour meant that.

Until tomorrow, Chief. As they stumbled down the station house's stone steps, they shouted. Dear boys, good night.

The two of them emerged from the crowds of merry, laughing colored people that had surrounded them earlier that day onto Decatur Street, which was foggy with the evening mist. Only the lingering smell of fried fish and the stench of hot dogs could be detected from the throng of people who had once filled the street from curb to curb. One person asked, "Where is Britt?".

I guess howled in Boots Rogers' car, the other remarked, and the two laughed. As a result, the third reporter was left in the car while the officers sat back in their chairs inside the station house and droned away the remaining hours until dawn. A thin smudge of light was already forming over the hazy skyline to the east.

The arc lights on the street burned blue, and the hands on the station clock were slowly advancing to three o'clock. The officer who had been brought in earlier that evening on a charge of disorderly conduct heard the gulping slumps of amigris from someplace in the cells at the back of the station. She had screamed and moaned all night long until exhaustion had left her with only those raccoon sobs.

A large man who was close to the door and whose chevrons indicated that he was in charge of a department growled, "Sergeant.". The sergeant sighed and clumped off toward the rear, swinging keys, "Make that woman shut up, will you.". The telephone rang as Boots Rogers' deputy was about to start the Grace case's nth exposition.

Well," remarked Officer W. C. Anderson. Who is calling at this time of the night? He slowly stood up, made his way to the phone booth door, and opened it. His fellow officers gave him a fleeting glance up before settling back in their chairs.

Please move along. It was the booth, saying, "Hello.". This is, in fact, the police station.

You'll need to speak more slowly, old man. You baffle me. Then he heard from the black man several blocks away who was cowering in fear in the shadows of the pencil factory and speaking in a trembling voice about a dead girl discovered in the National Pencil Factory's basement on Forsyth Street.

The drowsy officers jumped to their feet, wide awake a minute to the emergency as Officer Anderson crashed out of the phone booth with his news. Rogers yelled, "My machine's in front.". Move along.

He was on the sidewalk in an instant, followed closely by Anderson. Together, they jumped into the car, roused the sleeping reporter, and drove up the silent street, sputtering and flooring, leaving the other officers gaping behind them as they followed a trail of dust and a winking red light. Two men were seen standing at the intersection of Prior and Decatur streets as the machine got closer to them.

Officers Dobbs and Brown were them. The car started to slouch. Enter now.

Rogers exclaimed. Without much of a pause, the large vehicle continued to rock up Marietta Street before swerving into the black pile that they recognized as the National Pencil Company and coming to a stop. Four men got off the vehicle.

Officer Anderson banged on the door with clenched fists as everyone was breathing heavily from excitement. From inside, a quiet tread could be heard. Newt Lee's terrified face peered out at them as the latch grated angrily.

His teeth were chattering, and the whites of his eyes were rolling. They shot at him and had entered the dark portal of the factory with Lee in front and Anderson right behind him. Before he could speak, each officer asked himself, "Where's the body?" They shot at him. The men marched in single file toward the scuttle hole, each holding a revolver in his fist.

Fearfully pointing to the object in the corner, Newt Lee led the group down the ladder and into the shadows. That's all, he murmured. The officers knelt and peered at the girl's horrifyingly dismembered body.

She was motionless as she lay in the sawdust, her feet diagonally across toward the right back corner and her head pointing forward. The face was turned toward the wall and was uncut and bruised with grime. The men knelt down to perform a closer inspection, and as they did so, the severity of the wounds became clear to them.

They could make out her torn-up hair, which was clearly that of a white person and was darkly stained with blood that had oozed from an aggressive blow to the back of the head. The silk lavender dress was stained with blood, and the blue ribbon that had been tied on so carelessly just a few hours earlier was now dirty and wilted. One small white slipper was still clinging to the right foot. There was a thick cord around the neck that had made deep cuts in the skin.

A crudely made gag made of fabric torn from her dress formed around her head. The body was turned over by them. The underskirt was torn to pieces.

A stocking supporter was broken. The white stocking drooped nearly to the knee. My God, it's just a kid, Sergeant Brown exclaimed as he threw his head back.

Sergeant Dobbs had been investigating the cellar floor for a moment while they were still standing there. He discovered the girl's other slipper a short distance away. Her flimsy little hat was placed close to the elevator shaft.

Then he made a finding. He held up two dirty pieces of yellow paper that had been scrawled with obnoxious letters as he turned toward the lantern light. The police officers read the notes.

He said he would love me, and he laid down like a night witch. However, that tall, lean black man did it all by himself. Mama, the other reader that Negro employed down here committed this.

He shoved me down this hole as I went to get water. I write while with a long, tall, black Negro who has a lean build. The quick flash of suspicion already borne in the minds of all the white men present turned toward the black man Lee, wondering what this was, what did they mean, and had the man who wrote these notes committed this heinous act.

The watchman was suddenly approached by Anderson, who threw a rough hand on his shoulder. You've accomplished this, he croaked. For the love of God I didn't, white people a second later Anderson had slipped the handcuffs on his wrists, and Newt Lee was being detained for murder.