The Killings by J.F. Gonzalez, Wrath James White Page B

with the other.
    Robert looked at the flier. They were looking for colored men to join the Atlanta Police Department, but it wasn’t exactly what Henry had told him or what the colored pastors and businessmen had been calling for. The flier said the Atlanta Police Department was hiring “undeputized security” to patrol the Negro community for clues leading to the arrest of the Ripper, for which they would pay a weekly stipend of ten dollars.
    Robert looked at the redheaded officer and asked, “Excuse me, sir. What does ‘undeputized security’ mean?”
    The officer smirked and looked down his nose at Robert. It was the type of superior expression Robert had seen on the faces of Whites all his life. He wished he had a moment alone in a dark alley with this bucktoothed bastard. He’d wipe that sanctimonious smirk off his face in a heartbeat and leave the little shit choking on his own blood. The thought put a smile on his face.
    “That means that y’all ain’t gonna be no real policemen. It means y’all have to call a real officer when you want someone arrested, but you can interview witnesses and report suspicious activity and such.” That meant they would not have guns or badges but would be placed into some of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. Robert felt his stomach roll.
    “I thought y’all were hiring detectives?”
    Robert saw the fire leap into the officer’s eyes. The redhead’s lip curled back and his eyebrows furrowed. He stepped forward and poked Robert in the chest with his nightstick. “Now look here, boy! Ain’t no way we’s hiring no nigger detectives. I ain’t even a detective yet! You want to help us catch this killer? You sign up and never mind all this nonsense about being a damn detective!”
    It took all the willpower within him to resist putting his fist through the policeman’s dental work, but Robert knew what would happen to him were he to let his temper get the better of him. It was only five years ago that angry mobs were lynching colored folks right on this very street in broad daylight. Robert smiled, nodded, and began to turn away when an older White gentleman in shirt sleeves and suspenders with a gold shield pinned to his chest stepped forward with an outstretched hand.
    “My name’s Detective Douglas. Martin Douglas. What’s your name, son?”
    Robert looked at the detective’s hand like it was on fire. He tentatively reached for it as if afraid that it would burn him. Detective Douglas had large shocks of gray running through his slick black hair. It glistened with pomade. He smoked a hand-rolled cigarette and had hard eyes that focused intensely. He stared directly into Robert’s eyes without blinking until Robert finally accepted his outstretched hand.
    “My ... uh ... my name’s Robert, sir. Robert Jackson.”
    “You want to be a police detective, Robert?”
    The look in his eyes was genuine. Not mocking or challenging like the young red-haired cop.
    “Y-yes, sir.”
    “Well, Officer Lacey is right. We ain’t hiring colored cops right now. But what we have now is the next best thing. You can be an employee of the police department. You can help catch that bastard that’s killin’ all them colored women and make a pretty good wage doin’ it. Where else you gonna make ten dollars a week doin’ an honest man’s work?”
    “I own a barbershop. I do okay.”
    “Cuttin’ nigger hair?” Officer Lacey asked, laughing and sneering simultaneously. “You couldn’t pay me enough! What do you cut it with? An axe?”
    “Lacey. Why don’t you go out on patrol?” Detective Douglas said, turning to Officer Lacey. “You’re not needed here any more.” Detective Douglas’s voice remained calm and measured. It was difficult to tell if he was angry or not.
    Officer Lacey paused for a moment, staring at the detective’s face, looking for some clue to his superior’s temperament. When he found none, he scampered off with his tail tucked and his ears