The Frank Case, Atlanta 1913. Chapter 2 Part VI. The Police Reach Scene 1

Three men at the Atlanta police station were freed from their night's work by the same clock that had blasted the hour that had dispatched Newt Lee on his rounds of the factory building. The night had been simple for police reporters. However, easy nights are tiring nights, and the welcome hour meant that the large presses up in the office were cranking out pages of printed matter for the city residents to pass the time on Sundays between breakfast and the start of church.

Goodnight, Chief. While descending the station house's stone steps, they shouted. Good night, guys.

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 hot dog stench and the lingering smell of fried fish were left of the throng of people that had once filled the street from curb to curb. One asked, "Where's Brit?" The other responded, "I guess hauled in Boots Rogers car," and the two laughed. As a result, the second reporter was left in the car, and the officers in the station house sat back in their chairs and continued to work until dawn. A thin smudge of light was already emerging over the smoky eastern skyline.

The hands on the station clock were stuttering toward the hour of three while the arc lights in the street burned blue. The officer who had been brought in earlier that evening on a charge of disorderly conduct heard the gulping sobs of an egress from somewhere in the cells at the back of the station. She had screamed and complained all night long, and only those agonizing sobs came as a result of exhaustion.

Near the door, a large man with chevrons proclaiming him to be in charge of a department growled, "Sergeant.". The sergeant sighed and clumped off toward the back, 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. T. Anderson. He strode drowsily to the door of the phone booth and swung it open, wondering who's ringing up at this hour of the night. His fellow officers gave him a fleeting glance up before reclining in their chairs. Mum, come on. "Hello," came from the booth. The police station is located here, yes. You'll have to speak more slowly, old man.

You baffle me, man. Then he received word of a dead girl being discovered in the National Pencil Factory's basement on Forsyth Street from that black man who was standing several blocks away, crouching in fear in the shadows of the pencil factory. The sleepy officers leapt to their feet as Officer Anderson slammed out of the phone booth with his news, wide awake a minute to the emergency. "My machine's in front," yelled Rogers.

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 the three of them were up the side of the street, sputter and floor, leaving the other officers gaping behind a trail of dust and a winking red light.

Two men were visible on the corner of Prior and Decatur streets as the machine drew near. Officers Brown and Dobbs were them. The car started to slouch.

Leap in. Rogers yelled, and with hardly a pause the big car rocked on up Marietta Street, slewed into foresight, and stopped panting at the black pile that they knew was the National Pencil Company. The four men got off the vehicle.

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

His teeth chattered, 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. The officers all thought to themselves before they could speak, "The picture of fear," "Where's the body?". The men moved forward in a single file toward the scuttle hole, each man gripping a revolver tightly.

Fearfully pointing to the object in the corner, Newt Lee led the group down the ladder and into the shadows. He muttered, "That's it. The officers knelt and examined the girl's horribly dismembered body.

She was motionless as she lay in the sawdust with her feet diagonally across and her head pointing forward. The face was facing 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. A small white slipper still clung to the right foot, and the blue ribbon that had been tied on so carelessly just a few hours earlier was now wilted and filthy. The silk lavender dress was stained with blood. A thick cord that had pierced the skin deeply was wrapped around the neck.

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

A stocking supporter was broken. Almost to the knee, the white stocking sagged on its own. My God, it's just a kid, Sergeant Brown exclaimed, throwing 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 located close to the elevator shaft.

He then made a discovery. He held up two dirty pieces of yellow paper that had been scrawled with obnoxious letters as he turned toward the lantern light. The officers went through the notes.

He said he would love me, and he laid down like a night witch. But that tall, lean black man did it alone. The other reader, Mama, who Negro hired down here, did this.

He shoved me down this hole as I went to get water. A long, tall, awakened black Negro. Negro, who is tall and lean.

While my friends play, I write. A quick flash of suspicion, already present in the minds of every white man present, turned toward the black man Lee. What was this? What did they mean? Had the author of these notes committed this heinous act? Anderson suddenly swung over to the watchman and threw a rough hand on his shoulder.

He said hoarsely, "Nig, you did this.". I didn't because of God. Moments later, White people saw Anderson place handcuffs on Newt Lee's wrists and place him under arrest for murder.