Free Darktown by Thomas Mullen

translucent from spilled moonshine,” and “the hilt of the blade protruded at a ninety-degree angle.” Then the sergeant had tossed the report in the trash, saying, “You’re not impressing anyone with the ten-dollar words, Boggs. Fewer adjectives, please. No one’s giving you a PhD for this.” Since then, Boggs strained to be as succinct as possible so as not to offend his GED-holding boss.
    As he typed, he thought of the facts he wished he knew, information a white cop easily could acquire by going to the Records department. If the Negro officers needed to access files that were stored at headquarters, they needed to place a call asking for the file, since they weren’t allowed on the premises. The file would then be added to a stack that was picked up daily by McInnis, who frequently complained to his officers about that chore. I am not your errand boy. Which made them that much more reluctant to make such requests.
    Boggs didn’t even know what charges Dunlow and Rakestraw had cited Underhill with the evening they’d pulled him over. But he had a feeling McInnis didn’t want him to bother with finding out, as it would have only made the paperwork take longer.
    Boggs was nearly finished when McInnis excused himself to use the john, which was one flight up. (The Y had been paid by the police department to turn an existing closet into a small, whites-only restroom for McInnis’s sake.) Boggs picked up the phone. He identified himself to the police switchboard operator and asked for Records. Muffling the receiver, he turned to his partner and asked, “Cover for me, Tommy.”
    Smith shook his head, but he walked over to the stairs, in better position for a warning whistle if McInnis approached.
    The voice of a middle-aged woman came over the line: “Records.”
    â€œYes, I need the arrest record for Brian Underhill on July ninth.”
    â€œWho’s speaking?”
    He gave her his name and badge number, which included the suffix identifying him as a Negro officer. He was put on hold for a while. At least she hadn’t hung up on him. McInnis better have slow bowels, he thought. Finally, she was back on the line. She told him there was nothing to be found.
    â€œNot even a traffic citation?”
    â€œNothing. No record of anything involving that name.”
    â€œI’m sure that’s a mistake. Could you check the logs for Officers Dunlow and Rakestraw? They would have made the arrest.”
    She sighed loudly into the phone and put him on hold again. Minutes passed. McInnis was still in the john, poor bastard (or maybe he’d fallen asleep on it?), when her voice finally came back on.
    â€œNothing in the recent logs for those officers about any Underhill.”
    So not only had Dunlow and Rakestraw not cited him for striking the lamppost, they hadn’t even made note of the fact that they’d pulled him over.
    â€œWhile I have you,” Boggs said as politely as he could before she hung up on him, “I was hoping you could pull Underhill’s records. Does he have any priors?”
    â€œI’ve done enough for you, boy. There was no arrest, there’s nothing for you to worry about, so go patrol your nigger neighborhood.” She hung up.
    Boggs held on to the receiver for an extra moment, his cheeks burning.
    A minute later, McInnis returned, and Boggs handed over his report. McInnis skimmed it, his eyes red above the gray bags in his skin.
    â€œI’ll take it over in the morning. Next shift, I mean.” He yawned. “Lord, it’s late. Go home, everyone.” He left without a thank-you.
    Boggs and Smith each showered upstairs for a good fifteen minutes. They saw garbage whenever they closed their eyes. Garbage and a body. They put on their civvies and stuffed their rancid blues into trash bags. They had only one spare each, so they’d need to get these washed immediately. Boggs had his