“Hey, how about making some room?” I asked.
Pace didn’t move. He made a couple more notes, then caught me with an elbow as he turned. He trotted out the door. I rubbed my ribs and started to read.
The body of the victim, Ida Virginia Belote, was lying face down in a back room on the right-hand side of her house. The deceased appeared to be about 50 years of age. Her upper and lower false teeth were lying on the floor of the room near her body. A bloody towel was rolled and stuffed tightly down her throat, pushing in locks of hair. The towel depressed the deceased’s tongue and inverted her lower lip. She had finger marks and bruises about her neck and beneath her jaw. Her right eye was blackened, and her left eye was swollen shut. Just above the deceased’s left ear was a three-inch long cut down to the bone. The head and face were bloody. At the throat of the deceased was a sailor’s neck cloth. There was a dry abrasion on the elbow of the left arm. There was no visible sign of rape.
In the middle room, near the front door, were shards of brown crockery. A spittoon covered with blood lay on the floor, along with three small black hair combs. On a box behind the door of the middle room were blood stains. There were blood stains on the floor leading to the adjacent back room on the right. Blood stains were on the door facing leading into the room on the right, about two-and-a-half feet from the floor. Under a bureau between the window and door was a pool of blood, and smeared blood and bloody clothing on the floor. A white porcelain jar top was found shattered into many pieces. No money or purse was found.
I scribbled notes and ran for the Times-Herald office. I just made the deadline. The front-page headline read, “IDA BELOTE IS BRUTALLY MURDERED, BLACK WOMAN HELD.”
I sat out on the porch of my rooms, smoking. We’d had a shower at nightfall. The wind was raw. I read the story for probably the twentieth time and folded the paper. When the wind stirred, water dripped from the trees onto the roof of the porch. My hands were freezing.
In the morning Tyler Hobgood, the editor at the paper, called me into his office. Mr. Hobgood usually looked like he’d spent the night away from home. When he’d hang his suit coat on the tree, his shirt was always rumpled, the collar askew, and his shirttail poked from the back of his vest.
“These coloreds,” he muttered, and shook his head. “A white woman in her own house.” He looked into my face. I had never noticed how sad his eyes were. His moustache needed a trim. “Stay on this one, Mears,” he said. “Day or two, you might be reporting a lynching.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whole lot more serious than college, ain’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle. He poured a dram of whiskey into his coffee cup. He tilted the bottle toward me.
“Want a little hair of the dog?” he asked.
“No thank you, sir.”
“Still teetotaling?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In this line of work,” he said, “you might want to change that, Mears.”
“Yes, sir.”
He drank down the whiskey and set the cup on his desk.
“Can you spare a cigarette?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Mayor Jones is worried about violence,” he said. “Ordered the coroner to complete the inquest soon as he can. Lucky Strike. Good cigarette, Mears.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He struck a match. “Nobody wants a mob in the streets, Mears. Bad for business.” He lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and blew a puff of smoke. “Anyway, get what you can at that inquest. They’re convening at the sheriff’s office. And don’t forget I need something for the society section on the Ladies’ Club meeting over in Phoebus.”
By the time I made it to the courthouse, Dr. Vanderslice’s mare was nibbling daffodils in front of the Elizabeth City County jail.
3.
Inquest
The night of the Belote murder Dr. Vanderslice swore in five men for the coroner’s inquest. They had inspected the crime scene at the crack of dawn Tuesday morning and were drinking coffee in Sheriff Curtis’ office when I opened the door. The sheriff had his boots up on the fender of the wood stove in the middle of the room. The heat felt good.
“You’re getting an early start, Charlie,” Dr. Vanderslice said. He was standing by the stove, warming his hands. “Come in and have a cup of coffee.”
The sheriff sat up and pulled a chair away from the wall. “Chilly out there, ain’t it, son?” Dr. Vanderslice handed me an enamel cup and a plaid cloth. I picked up the handle of the pot on the stove with the cloth and poured some coffee.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Sit down,” Sheriff Curtis said. I pulled the chair close to the stove.
“You’re the first one in,” Dr. Vanderslice said. He removed a folded document from his breast pocket and handed it to me. “I expect you’ll be wanting to read this. Today we’re interviewing more witnesses for the record.” He nodded. “Go ahead.”
I unfolded the paper.
Virginia, County of Elizabeth City, To wit: An inquisition taken at the residence of Mrs. Ida V. Belote, 809 Washington Street, Hampton, Virginia and continued at the jail office in the County of Elizabeth City on the 18th day of March, continued March 19th, 1912, before G. K. Vanderslice, MD, a coroner of the said county, upon the view of the body of Mrs. Ida V. Belote there lying dead. The jurors, sworn to inquire how, when, and by what means the said Mrs. Ida V. Belote came to her death upon their oaths, do say: said Mrs. Ida V. Belote came to her death on March 18th, 1912, from injuries, wounds and strangulation, received at the hands of Virginia Christian, a deliberate murder. In testimony whereof the said coroner and jurors have hereto set their hands.
“First-degree?” I asked.
“That’ll be up to the Commonwealth’s attorney, but the constable discovered the victim’s purse on the girl’s person after she was arrested. Apparent motive is robbery. Appears the girl was lying in wait for the widow. I don’t see any way around it, do you, Sheriff?” Dr. Vanderslice said. Sheriff Curtis shook his head.
“Especially when you take into account the violence of the act. And the fact that the victim’s children discovered her corpse,” Dr. Vanderslice said. “This’ll be your first murder trial, won’t it, Charlie?” He sipped at his coffee, then brushed the tips of his moustache with the back of his forefinger.
“Yes, sir.”
“Young fellow over at the Daily Press is about the only other one paying much attention right now,” one of the jurors said. I took out my pencil and pad.
“Let me go ahead and get the jury names from this, Dr. V.”
“Certainly.”
I
