CHAPTER VII
Central City was the county seat of Smith County. The morning after the murder of Bud Ware, Kenneth went down to the County Court House to file his report on the death. It was a two-story building, originally of red brick but now of a faded brownish red through the rains and sun of many years. It sat back from the street about fifty feet and was surrounded by a yard covered here and there with bits of grass but for the most part clear of all vegetation, its red soil trampled by many feet on “co’t day.” The steps were worn thin through much wear of heavy boots. On either side of the small landing at the top, there hung a bulletin board on which were pasted or tacked yellow notices of sheriff’s sales, rewards for the arrest of criminals, and other court documents. The floor of the dark and narrow hallway was stained a reddish colour by the mud and dust from the feet of those who had entered the building. Just inside the doorway, on either side, were rectangular boxes filled with sawdust for the convenience of those of a tobacco-chewing disposition, which included most of the male population. The condition of the floor around the boxes seemed to indicate that only a few of these had realized for what purpose the boxes had been placed there. Over all was a liberal coating of the dust that had blown in the door and windows.
Entering the office of the County Health Commissioner, Kenneth found that dignitary in his shirtsleeves, feet comfortably placed on top of his desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Lane. I’ve come to make a report of a death.”
At the sound of Kenneth’s voice, County Commissioner of Health Henry Lane turned in his chair without moving his feet to see who it was that had entered. Long, lanky, a two days’ growth of red beard on his face, Mr. Lane removed the corn-cob pipe from his mouth with a rising and falling of a prominent Adam’s apple. Seeing that his visitor was only a Negro, he replaced his pipe in his mouth and, between several jerky puffs to get it going again, querulously replied:
“Can’t you see I’m busy? Why don’t you save up them repo’ts till you git a passel of them, and then bring ‘em in? Got no time t’ be writin’ up niggers’ deaths, anyhow. Ev’ry time I turn ‘round, some nigger’s gittin’ carved up or shot or somepin’.”.
“I understand it’s the law, Mr. Lane, that deaths of anybody, white or coloured, must be reported by the physician at once.”
“Drat the law. That’s fo’ white folks.”
He drew himself out of his chair with great reluctance and ambled over to the counter, drawing to him a pad and pencil as he turned towards Kenneth.
“What nigger’s dead now?” he inquired.