It was late, the office was empty. The rest of the boys were out celebrating a job well done, I was on my way to join them but I could still hear the sound of a type writer from down the hall.

It was coming from Jack’s office. We’d been transferred to this branch of the FBI together, worked a lot of the same cases, our jackets were pretty similar.

His love of paperwork was something we did not share, however.

“Can’t you leave that ‘til the morning?” I asked.

“We blew through most this year’s budget on just this operation. All those fingerprints…Hell, I’m just glad the Brits didn’t put up any kind of any extradition fight and that the crazy bastard didn’t decide to go to some place that looks less favorably on capital punishment. That could’ve been a real legal scrape, let me tell you.”

“Jack.”

“Yeah?”

“We got James Earl Ray, got him cold. We did our job. Come get a drink and let the guys in Washington worry about paying for it.”

I flipped the light off to his office, leaving him in the dark.

He joined us at the bar not much later.

Memphis Note
The manhunt for James Earl Ray was, at that point, the largest and most expensive investigation the FBI had ever run. Tens of thousands of fingerprints were examined, hundreds of thousands of passport were scrutinized and over three thousand agents were involved. For the Memphis branch, the hunt for Ray has never been topped.

The grizzled forensic examiner snorted as he stepped under the yellow police tape into the abandoned lot. Behind him, the news crews were taking up positions, hoping for something incendiary to put on the evening news.

“Vultures. Ghouls.” He grumbled, his words long and drawn out, thickened with a Southern accent.

A young uniformed cop waved him toward a corner of the lot, where several more police were gathered. As he walked, the examiner noticed a profusion of beer bottles scattered around. Not uncommon or unexpected, but the were surprisingly…clean.

“Bunch’a bones down here, doc.” Said the cop that waved him over.

Sure enough, there was a scraped out hollow, about three feet across and half that deep, filled with bones of various sizes.

“Looks like some of ‘em been chewed.” Volunteered another.

The examiner took a step forward and felt something crunch under his shoe. He shifted his foot to look at what he’d stepped on: a spent charcoal briquette.

“Son, you kind of vegetarian or something?” The examiner sighed.

“Sir, no, I…what?”

“They’re ribs.”

“Well, yes, sir, that’s why we called it in.”

“Barbecue ribs, you idiot. You ain’t investigatin’ a murder. You investigatin’ a party.”

Memphis Note
Memphis is probably the only place in the world where a pile of gnawed bones isn’t cause for alarm, but rather the tell-tale sign of a good party.

Rain beat down on the roof of the dark sedan, the droplets sounding like the snare drum Ernest Withers used to march to back in the service. All those years ago, when things were so much simpler. When his photographs, and only his photographs, were the thing that mattered.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Ernest.” Said FBI Agent Lowe from the driver seat, eyes shooting back at Ernest through the rear view mirror. “We’ve been over this. It’s just like taking your pictures. They’re just subjects, and you’re just letting us know if happenstance brings you anything interesting.”

“You’re helping us to clarify things.” Followed up Lawrence, the other agent, giving an arthritic thumbs up. “So we can leave your people alone.”

“Our people?” Muttered Ernest, without thinking.

“What? What was that?” Snapped back Agent Lowe.

“They’re our people.” Ernest said, this time so they could hear him. “Yours and mine. They’re Americans. They’re not some Communists come to take our freedom. They don’t have to be. We’re doing it for them. We’re the spies here. We’re the traitors.”

Then Ernest Withers stepped out into the rain, knowing that it wouldn’t wash him clean, but still praying all the same.

Memphis Note
Ernest Withers was a photographer during the Civil Rights Movement, probably the photographer of the Civil Rights Movement. But, he was also an informant for the FBI, and an ex-cop that got busted for taking a bribe. No one is ever as simple as historians want them to seem, and Ernest was no exception. He wasn’t a sinner or a saint, just a man trying to get by and keep his family fed.

“I never thought about it, but these crappy benches are a lot like pews.” Joked the private investigator as he slid into booth.

The CK’s coffee shop was deserted at this hour, exactly how the man across from him wanted it.

“Modern churches don’t have pews. They’re too hard to move. Worship isn’t just confined to ritual, reading and homily any more, you know.”

“I don’t know, reverend.” The investigator slid a CD across the table. “I think you could work out a sermon on not spying on your parishioner.”

The reverend snatched the disc from the table by with the speed and ferocity a starving dog going after a scrap of meat.

“That bad, huh?”

“They’re threatening a coup, all because of some nonsense about us giving money to a church that supports queers and baby killers.”

“Did ya?”

“We donate millions a year, I can’t track every cent of it.” The reverend grumbled.

“Course not. And here all I thought you had to do was teach people to love each other. I never knew that could get so…complicated.” The P.I. got up to leave. “I’ll send my bill to your house. Avoid more of them that way.”

Memphis Note
In Memphis, churches are huge, both economically and politically. Whole neighborhoods are shaped around them, interstate exists are built for them, and political dynasties rely upon them. With all that power and money, it’s no wonder that things can some times get a little heated and contentious, even litigious, between the congregation and the clergy.